


One Rainy Night

by detectivejigsaw



Series: Twangst Stories [20]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: AU, Bill Cipher is a Jerk, Depression, Ford is an idiot, Gen, Mullet Stan (kind of), Non-romantic slow burn, Stan has self-esteem issues, Trigger warning: attempted suicide (mentioned), Young Grunks, flipside AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-01-15 03:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21246803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivejigsaw/pseuds/detectivejigsaw
Summary: After the Marilyn Incident, Stan is looking for his car; instead, he runs into an old fortuneteller who might be able to help him reconnect with Ford-and save the world in the process, over forty years ahead of schedule.





	1. Lost

_ Well, Vegas officially sucks. _

Stanley knew, because he knew himself way too well, that sooner or later he’d probably change his mind about this, the next time things started looking up for him here.

But right now, laying in the gutter with the newly-acquired certificate of divorce in his pocket, his precious car keys (barely rescued from the greedy claws of his new ex-wife) clenched so tight in his hand they were probably breaking the skin, and a headache performing a drum solo on the inside of his skull, he hated Vegas.

And then, because the world hated Stan Pines, it started to rain.

And not just a soft, wet drizzle either, oh no, that would have been nice and merciful so of course it didn’t apply to him. It was a full-out downpour that had him soaked through within seconds.

At least he had his car, so he had somewhere to go to dry off.

With a groan, Stan finally sat up, and after a long moment where he waited for the tiny drummer living in his head to stop beating the cymbals he began the agonizing process of getting to his feet.

He sighed, brushing his shaggy hair out of his eyes, and began the arduous walk to where his car was.

It probably should have bothered him more than it did that he wasn’t even that upset about finding out that Marilyn had just been going after his car this whole time. But somehow, well...you got used to being abandoned and rejected, after a while. It didn’t hurt any less when it kept happening, but after a while it stopped being a surprise.

He stopped at an intersection of two equally grimy, dirty alleyways, and frowned in thought. He’d hidden his car down one of them when he first got to Vegas, he knew that. Covered it with a bunch of trash, made it look less appealing to anyone who might come sniffing around-and then stupidly bragged to Marilyn about how great it was, so she’d married him and tried to persuade him to tell where he was hiding it, until he finally caught on to her little scheme and nipped it in the bud. But right now he was still kind of hungover, so he couldn’t quite remember the right alley…

Reaching into his pocket, Stan pulled out his last quarter and flipped it. Heads, he’d go for the one on the left. Tails, the one on the right.

In some universes-many of them, in fact-Stan got tails. He went in, found his car right away, changed into dry (albeit grimy) clothes, and curled up in the back and moped himself to sleep before driving off the next day, already planning out another get-rich-quick scheme.

In this one, however, the quarter turned up heads. And Stan caught it quickly, before it could bounce away into the gutter or something, stuffing it back into his pocket, and trudged into the corresponding alley.

* * *

He realized soon enough that his car wasn’t down here.

Grumbling to himself, he was about to go back the way he’d come, when a voice warbled, “Care to learn your fortune, young man?”

Stan jumped what felt like a foot in the air, and whirled around, digging into his pockets for his brass knuckles in preparation to fend off-

A tiny old woman sitting cross-legged on the ground, using half a cardboard box as a makeshift tent (that he could tell wasn’t going to last much longer if the rain kept up like this) and in clothes even more ragged than his, with a deck of cards being shuffled between her bony hands.

Stan let out a relieved laugh, snorting at himself for being scared so easily, and turned away shaking his head. Just hearing that phrase made a small coal of nostalgia burn in his gut, and he didn’t need anymore painful reminders of how much his life sucked today, thank you very much.

“I can tell you your heart’s desire.” Somehow the old crone managed to make herself heard over the pouring rain.

This time he flat-out rolled his eyes. “That’s what they all say, lady.”

Her next words, though, stopped him right in his tracks. “You want your brother back.”

Slowly, Stan turned around and _ gaped _ at the woman.

She just looked back at him expectantly for a moment, then folded the cards and slid them up her sleeve, standing up and daintily approaching.

There were several questions Stan wanted to ask-how the [**CENSORED**] did she know that, who had she been talking to, what did she think she was playing at-but all that came out was a kind of strangled, “H-how-who-” before his natural defenses sprang back into place and he snarled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

The woman just reached out, and before he could react cupped his cheek in one hand.

“You poor things.” Her voice was filled with unexpected _ sorrow _. “You’re both so lost.”

“I’m not-and he’s not either, he’s doing just fine!” _ He made it perfectly clear he doesn’t need me. _

She gave a small sigh, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb. “That is what you keep telling yourselves. You think that it’s better to hide behind your anger than admit to your pain. But it doesn’t hide how you’ve both become broken.” Finally she released him. “Broken in heart, broken in soul…” She pulled out a card, and with a quick jerk of her hands ripped it right down the middle. “Broken in two.”

Stan wondered how she was doing this-he was no stranger to cold readings, but he didn’t see how she could possibly have figured out this much from him. Unless she really _ was _ a psychic-and, well, he’d seen the Jersey Devil as a kid so maybe he shouldn’t rule that out entirely, as improbable as it seemed that he’d run into a genuine psychic here in a dirty alleyway in Vegas…

“You can still fix it, though,” the woman went on. “In fact, you must.”

Stan scoffed. “Oh, yeah? Why?” What was the point?

She looked straight at him. “Otherwise the world will be destroyed because your brother will choose the wrong allies.”

...That was a way more dire prediction than even his mother had ever dared make.

“Mend your bonds before it’s too late,” she insisted, pressing the two halves of the card into his hand. And then she stepped away, towards the other opening of the alley.

“...Geez, ya think ya could be a _ little _ more cryptic?!” Stan yelled after her.

She didn’t answer, continuing to shuffle away through the rain.

* * *

The pieces of card, Stan noticed as he went to the other alleyway and found his car, were the halves of a two of hearts, appropriately enough. He thought about tossing them away, but instead he found himself putting them in the pocket of the dry jeans he changed into. And then staring vacantly at the roof of his car for two hours, thoughts tumbling around and around in his brain helplessly.

On the one hand, fortune tellers and so-called psychics really got off on either telling suckers that all this good stuff was gonna happen to them, or giving vague, easily misinterpreted omens of doom. On the other hand, she hadn’t asked him for money in exchange for her prediction like most of those shysters-she’d just given it. And somehow, she’d _ known _. She’d known everything.

_ Come on, you’re not supposed ta be this naïve _ , he told himself in annoyance, _ It’s gotta be some kinda con you just haven’t figured out yet. _

And yet…

It would be just like Ford to make some kind of dumb mistake and trust the wrong person because he had nothing between his ears besides science stuff, and no concept of guile whatsoever. And wouldn’t it be better to take the risk that this lady was crazy or something if there was a chance that she was right?

With a sigh, Stan dug the quarter back out of his pocket, and put the keys in the ignition. Time to find a pay phone.

By the time he found one that seemed to be in decent condition, it had stopped raining. Stan dialed the number he had by now memorized, and nearly pulled the cord right out of its socket as his finger toyed with it nervously.

It rang twice, before the familiar refrain of “Hello, this is Stanford Pines” came through the receiver.

Stan’s thought processes froze. What was he supposed to say? Somehow, ‘hey, I’m calling because a fortune teller said you were gonna destroy the world if we don’t make up’ didn’t seem like it would cut it. And of course his throat was locking up and he could already feel his arm preparing to put the phone back on the hook because he couldn’t take the pain of being rejected again-

“Hello? Is someone there?” Ford’s voice was tinted with curiosity that could turn into annoyance any second.

“_ Lo siento, hermano, _” Stan blurted out, and then his impulsive hand finally got its way and slammed the phone back on the hook.

A second later he groaned into that same hand.

_ You idiot. You finally say something, and-well, yeah, it’s an apology that he’s been deserving for a long time, but… _

_ This is gonna be harder than I thought. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the fortune teller is not the Hand Witch. I know she sounds kind of similar, but she's not.


	2. Reaching out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is my brother's birthday.  
He doesn't read fanfiction, to my knowledge, and I don't think he's interested in Gravity Falls, but still. It feels right to post this on his birthday.  
Happy birthday, C.

Ford stared at the phone, still clutched in his hand, in astonishment.

The mystery caller who had spent years (somehow following his trail from Backupsmore all the way to Gravity Falls, no less) contacting him, only to hang up without speaking, had finally _ said _ something.

And even though the words he’d spoken were in Spanish, which Ford had never learned (why bother when Latin and Ancient Greek were available?), the voice sounded very familiar, which was the tiniest bit reassuring for some reason.

Unfortunately, even though Spanish was derived from Latin because it was a Romance language, he was stumped as to what those words had actually meant.

Ford realized with a growl of frustration that it was late, and the town library (which was probably the best place he could go to get them translated) was therefore closed.

_ It would certainly be nice _ , he mused to himself, _ if there was a way to readily find information from the comfort of your own home in situations like this. _

* * *

The next day he put aside his research on the weirdness of Gravity Falls, which was hitting a bit of a roadblock anyway, and headed straight for the library. He was eventually able to locate a good Spanish-to-English dictionary and start reading through it.

It would have made things easier if he’d been able to actually see the words the mystery caller had spoken, and how they were spelled, but he was able to make a few educated guesses. About ten minutes later Ford wrote out what he thought was the correct translation in his journal, under his entry on the silent phone calls-and at once his pen fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

_ Lo siento, hermano. _

_ I’m sorry, brother. _

There was only one person in the world who it could possibly be. Well, technically there were two, but only one of them would have a good reason to say that to him.

Slowly it sank in that his mystery caller was the one person he never expected to hear from again, and that he had just told Ford the one thing he never expected to hear from him.

He noticed that his hand was actually shaking a little, and his stomach churning with multiple emotions.

Frustratingly, until or unless Stanley called him back, there was nothing he could do to reconnect with him, because last he’d heard from Mom, Stan didn’t have a phone number.

* * *

He went home and spent the rest of the day shooting anxious (or alternatively baleful) glances at the phone as he tried to go through his normal routine, torn between willing it to ring so he could get some answers, and kind of hoping that it wouldn’t. And then feeling horrified and disgusted with himself for the latter because what if that message had been some kind of _ final _ goodbye? Like maybe Stan was planning to never contact him again, or was about to-

No, he couldn’t think like that. Stan was incredibly fond of life, he’d _ never- _

But there was no way he could be sure of that, was there? There were probably lots of suicide cases (just thinking the words made him cringe) where the...victim was one of the last people you’d expect to do something like that.

But come on, even if Stan did feel guilty about what he’d done all that long ago, which he apparently did, surely he wouldn’t feel bad enough to do _ that _. Even if Ford could hold onto old hurts for so many years, that didn’t mean Stan would-

By the time his phone finally rang again, nearly two whole days later, Ford was a bundle of frayed nerves.

Hurriedly he snatched it up and practically yelled into the receiver, “Hello, this is Stanford Pines!”

There was another silence at the other end of the line. After a second it occurred to Ford that there was a chance it was someone else entirely, like maybe his mother or a telemarketer (the only other people who called on a regular basis), and he had just frightened them by shrieking into the phone. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and said in a more civilized tone, “...Um, hello? Sorry about that.”

There was no reply, but whoever it was hadn’t hung up yet; he could faintly hear what sounded like a car driving by on the other end of the line. Ford swallowed and decided to take the plunge.

“Stanley? Is that you?”

This time there was a small gasp, one that sounded familiar now that he was looking for it.

“Don’t hang up!” Ford said quickly, just in case.

Another pause...and then a (maybe more gravelly than he remembered, but still recognizable) voice said softly, “...Hey, Sixer.”

There were a hundred things that Ford wanted to say. And ask. And yell. And probably curse.

He chose to go with, “How did you get my number?”

“Mom,” Stan replied simply.

Ah. Of course. She had brought up Stanley a few times, telling him how his brother was doing even when he insisted he didn’t care and didn’t want to hear it. It sounded like she’d been trying to persuade Stan to reach out to him too.

He chewed his lip, searching for more words.

“I, um-was waiting for you to call back sooner.”

“Sorry. I got...caught up.” More cars were in the background; was he next to a road?

Another pause.

“...What did you want?” Stan finally asked.

“You’re the one who called _ me _, Stanley.”

“Oh. Right.” An awkward cough. “Guess I just...wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Is there a reason why I wouldn’t be?” Ford asked, still trying to process that. That meant that all those phone calls were his brother’s own unique way of checking up on him?

“I dunno. Besides the fact that you suck at taking care of yourself.” A half-hearted laugh, probably accompanied by him sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck; he tended to do that when he was uncomfortable.

He was hiding something. Stan was a much better liar than Ford nine and a half times out of ten, but he could tell he was hiding something. All he said in return, though, was, “Listen to the pot calling the kettle black.”

More awkward laughter from both of them.

Oh geez, they were actually doing small talk. That felt so wrong; neither of them had _ ever _ needed to do small talk with each other. The alternative, however, was to rip the bandage off the wound that he had to admit to himself had never actually healed, and he didn’t know what would happen if he did that. Most likely Stan would hang up again and this would be the last conversation they’d ever have. And while the more self-righteous part of him said that was fine by him, he didn’t need anybody either, the rest of him was frantically whisper-screaming for that to not happen, please please please no-

“So you’re doing okay? Mom says you got a house. And a research grant.”

Ford shook his head, bringing himself back into the moment. “Yes. It’s in Oregon.”

“Whoa. You got all the way away from Jersey.”

Ford’s jaw clenched a tiny bit. “Yeah.”

“Good job.”

“...Thanks.”

And then, out of the blue, he said, “You should come visit.”

“Just take some time off-” Mom told him once while he was in college that Stan had started a sales business of some kind, maybe he was still doing that, and surely it wouldn’t be hard to take a break- “and drive up and see it. It’s a nice town, very interesting, has all kinds of unique phenomena.” Ford realized that he was starting to babble and shut his mouth.

A longer silence lasted between them, long enough for him to ask, “Stan? You still there?”

“I’m here.” To his surprise, Stan sounded...apprehensive. Afraid, even. Something Stan never was, except perhaps in situations regarding Pa.

“I-I don’t-you’re probably real busy doing important science stuff, I don’t wanna bother you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Ford insisted. “I’m...kind of in a roadblock in my research, actually. Maybe it would do me good to take some time off.”

“You don’t need me for that.” Somehow the resignation that entered his brother’s voice now hurt worse than the fear had.

“Just think about it.” Even though before today the idea of inviting his estranged twin to come visit him would have been the last thing on his mind, suddenly Ford very much wanted it to happen.

Maybe it was the fact that Stan had been sort of reaching out to him for almost five years now, even if he’d never actually spoken to him. Maybe it was because he’d said he was sorry, even if it was in another language.

Maybe it was lingering fear and not wanting to never hear from him again, as ridiculously sentimental as that probably was.

“...Maybe,” Stan finally said. “S’not like I’m that busy right now.”

Ford exhaled, trying to think of a way to be more persuasive without being pushy.

“Do you need my address?” Seconds later he wanted to kick himself; too eager, that was _ way _ too eager.

“Nah, I got it written down somewhere.”

“618 Gopher Road,” Ford said anyway.

“Yeah, that sounds right.” Stan swallowed again, loudly. “I, um, I gotta go. These calls aren’t cheap.”

Then all that was left was the dial tone buzzing in Ford’s ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know, Ford, if you actually bothered to go out and make friends once in a while there's a perfectly nice Spanish-speaking lady living nearby, a Senora Alzamirano, who could probably have helped you out with that translation.  
You dipstick.
> 
> Sorry if Ford getting so nervous seems out of character; it felt right to me, because if someone who I knew called to say they were sorry and then hang up I might be jumping to those kinds of conclusions. You know?


	3. Reunited

Of course, Stan went.

Because the fortune teller lady said Ford would destroy the world if he didn’t, of course. Definitely not because he really wanted to see his brother and it seemed like just maybe Ford wanted to see him too.

A day after that phone call he got over himself enough to call Ford back and, before he could change his mind, tell him that he’d be there in a few days. Then he headed for Gravity Falls, Oregon, only stopping for gas and whatever food he could shoplift or dig out of the dumpsters (don’t look at him like that-people threw away perfectly good stuff all the time, and it wasn’t like he had any personal dignity left to worry about, he lived in his car and had the beginnings of a  _ mullet _ , for cripes’ sake).

Eventually the red car, still in as good of working condition as he was capable of keeping it, meandered into the sleepy little town at around sunset, and after a bit of searching he was pulling up in front of a large, wooden cabin.

Stan’s heart leaped into his mouth and his palms began to sweat even more than usual when he saw that Ford was sitting on the front porch waiting for him (even from this far away, and after five years, he could still recognize him anywhere).

Quickly he turned off the ignition, not wanting to waste gas...but he didn’t get out yet. He just sat there for a second and stared at his brother.

Ford stared back.

Stan stared at Ford.

Ford stared back.

Stan squeezed the steering wheel, trying to work up the nerve to get out and go see his brother.

Ford, probably wondering what the holdup was, stood up and started down the steps.

Stan forced himself to let go of the steering wheel and unbuckle his seat belt, then slowly open the car door and get out.

“You look good,” he said, at last.

It was true; Ford was still skinny, but it also looked like he’d actually started getting more sunshine and fresh air out here.

Ford was staring at him intently, eyes troubled behind their glasses and mouth open in a small gasp.

“...What? You want a kiss on the cheek or something?” Stan demanded uncomfortably.

“What happened?” Ford asked, voice sounding troubled too.

It was then Stan remembered that oh, yes, he had a huge bruise all over the left side of his face that had also included a bit of a black eye and a split lip. He gave an uncertain laugh.

“Oh, that? Just a little incident from a few days ago. This gal tried ta steal my car, I stopped her, she objected ta some of the names I called her.”

And, he remembered, Marilyn had retaliated during the ensuing fight by running some off on him that he’d actually written down for future reference.

He shrugged, smiling a little crookedly. And painfully, since when he thought about it the bruise did hurt.

“I’m just lucky she missed with the hand that had a broken bottle in it.”

For some weird reason Ford did not seem appeased. “I have some ice in the house, come on.”

“It’s just a bruise,” he protested.

“I said come on.” And Ford turned back towards the house.

Stan gave a small, resigned sigh, and followed him after grabbing his duffel bag.

* * *

The house was...not bad. Had a bit of science clutter strewn here and there, but it was cozy enough to look at.

“You live here alone?” Stan asked as he followed Ford to the kitchen.

“Yes.” Ford reached into the freezer and produced an ice pack, turning and holding it out to Stan. His eyebrows scrunched together at the sight of the duffel. “Is that all you’re bringing in?”

“It’s all I got- _ need _ .” Stan smashed the ice pack onto his face, refusing to wince at the pain that such a counterproductive action created.

Of course, Ford wasn’t fooled. He looked him up and down, and his expression became even more troubled.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer!” Stan snapped.

He was beginning to think this had been a mistake. Ford was living here all by himself; from what he’d seen of the place, it didn’t look like he had people coming by on a regular basis, if at all. He was just fine, he didn’t-

“Are you hungry?”

Stan blinked. And as if planned by some sinister being, his treacherous stomach grumbled.

“I made soup,” Ford said, indicating the stockpot on the stove. “It’s got bacon bits in it, I...remembered you like those.”

After a second, Stan shrugged, sitting down in one of the chairs around the table. “Sure, I can eat. Thanks.”

* * *

Dinner was awkwardly silent for the most part at first. Stan tried not to show how incredibly hungry he was, or how  _ amazing _ it was to be having a full hot meal for the first time in a while, instead asking at last about how things were going for Ford, trying to probe some more.

Ford (hesitant at first, but soon with blatant eagerness) produced a big maroon journal that he’d apparently made himself, cataloging all his research and showing that Gravity Falls was pretty much his dream weird place.

If they hadn’t run into the Jersey Devil when they were kids, and if he didn’t know that in addition to self-care, Ford also sucked at lying, Stan probably wouldn’t have believed him when he talked about things like gnomes living in the forest and occasionally raiding his kitchen, or a giant tree man who ate his car (privately he hoped that thing didn’t come after the Stanley-Mobile; it was one of the only possessions he had that was unquestionably his, and he would fight to the death to keep it if he had to).

The only person in this whole town (or the world, really) he seemed to have any kind of relationship with was Dan Corduroy, who’d helped him build this house and was one of the only neighbors he knew by name. Other than that, he stayed in his own little bubble of experiments and weirdness and the only danger he seemed to be in was from his own social crippledness.

When both their bowls were empty, Stan snatched them up and took them to the sink to wash them.

“You don’t have to do that,” Ford objected.

“You cooked. It’s only fair.” Besides, it also gave Stan a chance to wash his hands so at least part of him was clean.

When they were washed out, Stan very carefully set the bowls and spoons in the drying rack. Then he turned around to face Ford, feeling the tension building up between them again.

“...Do you need anything else?” Ford asked.

“A washing machine?” The stiff politeness between them was making it all Stan could do not to scream.

“Oh-of course. This way.” Ford got up and led the way to the laundry room.

After he’d put his clothes in the wash Ford showed him the spare guest room and bathroom, and then told him to just come find him if he needed anything, before disappearing into the recesses of the house.

Stan decided to take a shower, and forcibly resisted the urge to use up all the hot water. Then he went to bed (in clean underwear and an undershirt!)...and stared vacantly at the ceiling for about twenty minutes before going out to sit on the front porch and wonder what he thought he was doing here.

Sooner or later something between them had to give, and they would have to talk about all the things they were conspicuously trying to avoid talking about, or (more likely) straight-out fight about them. Otherwise, it was doubtful there was gonna be any ‘mending of bonds’ between them. Stan almost thought he’d prefer going back to jail and telling some of the guys he’d met there that their mothers sucked eggs.

_ I said I was sorry, didn’t I? That’s probably good enough. _

_ No it’s not, knucklehead, and you know it. Besides, you gotta make sure that he doesn’t ‘choose the wrong allies,’ whatever that means. _

_ How? Corduroy sounds like he’s just fine, I doubt he’s who that lady was talking about. _

_ Well, maybe you just need to wait and see if someone shows up who seems like trouble. _

_ Someone already did: me. _

His inner self rolled his eyes at him.  _ You know what I mean. Just stay for as long as you can without being a leech. Give it time-you haven’t even been here a full day yet. _

Stan sighed, and stared gloomily out at the trees, trying to turn off his thoughts for a little bit and enjoy the sounds of the wind and crickets so maybe he’d get tired enough to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can do it, Stan! I have faith in you!


	4. Punching and propositions

Ford didn’t get much sleep that night, and not just because he was a chronic night owl even in normal situations. He was busy thinking about some troubling conclusions he had drawn regarding his brother from what he had seen of him so far.

Namely, Stan was not taking very good care of himself (even worse than his usual not-taking-good-care-of-himself).

Exhibit A: He had fresh, painful-looking injuries that he left unattended until Ford had produced some ice for them; in addition, he had noticed a number of old scars and cuts on his brother’s face and arms alone, with probably even more on the rest of his body.

Exhibit B: His first bites of food had been long and slow, savoring the taste of the soup, before he started absentmindedly shoveling it into his mouth like any second it was going to be snatched away. And while he could make the excuse that it was Stan’s poor table manners at work, he could tell that the more likely reason was just plain hunger. His twin hadn’t asked for seconds, but when Ford offered him more he hadn’t refused, and had continued to eat with barely concealed eagerness. And, this was the most troubling thing of all, he’d eaten _ all _ of the soup, even the vegetables-something that their mother would have considered an occasion for celebration.

Exhibit C: He smelled like he’d had a dumpster full of alcohol dropped on him, and one of the only things he asked for was an opportunity to wash his clothes-and he’d dumped pretty much everything in the duffel bag into the washer, followed soon after by the duffel bag. Which, by the way, was apparently the sum of his possessions besides his car and whatever he might have left inside it.

Conclusion: Stan was probably homeless, and occasionally engaged in activity that put him in harm’s way. If he’d ever had a job, he definitely didn’t now. And he hadn’t said anything to Ford, and probably not to anyone else in their family either, because he didn’t feel like he could go to them for help.

Well, maybe that was a justified assumption for their father, considering that he’d thrown Stanley out on the street and told him he couldn’t come home without a fortune, which was as good as telling him that he could never come home.

But what about Ford? No matter how angry that lost chance had made him, if he’d known that Stan was in really bad trouble he would have helped him, right? Surely Stan knew-

No, obviously he didn’t.

It made Ford wonder if all those silent phone calls, in addition to sort of keeping in touch, had been Stan attempting to reach out to him in his hour of need and chickening out at the last second; his stomach curdled.

He hadn’t even asked for help from Mom or Shermie, who were less involved in this whole nasty business and who would have been more than happy to give him aid; neither of them seemed likely to ever forgive Pa (or Ford, he suspected) for what he’d done, and were clearly always worrying about Stan whether they said so or not.

How could he possibly bring it up?

Should he?

What if Stan just lashed out at him, which he was more than likely to do if he felt like he was being pitied?

What if he decided to leave again?

The thoughts raced around and around his head like multiple hamsters running on the same wheel; even when he fell asleep at last they were still lurking in his dreams.

* * *

When he finally gave up on sleeping, at the crack of dawn, and went to look for Stan, his twin was not in his room.

Ford had a minor panic attack for a second, but then he rushed to a window looking out at the front yard and saw that the car was still there. And shortly after that he found his brother sprawled on the couch on the front porch, fast asleep.

With a sigh of relief (and a slight pang of nostalgia) Ford reached out and shook his shoulder.

“Hey, Stanley, wa-”

In a moment that was almost exactly like a lightning strike (without the electricity) Stan shot up and punched him in the nose, knocking him off the porch.

Ford felt the old, familiar (not that it had happened in a long time, thank goodness) sensation of blood trickling through his nostrils and a sharp pain in the middle of his face, even as he heard Stan’s horrified voice calling out to him, “Oh [CENSORED] I’m so sorry Ford, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-!” and a few seconds later his brother was helping him to sit up, and bringing him inside to shove a fistful of damp paper towels under his nose.

“...Sorry, I just-it was a reflex,” Stan concluded sheepishly a short time later, after a long litany of apologizing and fussing.

Ford grimaced over at him. “At least you’ve still got a good left hook,” he said, voice nasally.

“...Yeah.” Stan stared down at his fist. He looked for a second like he wanted to say something else, but he just patted Ford’s shoulder once and headed for the fridge.

Stan used Ford’s somewhat sparse groceries to put together some pancakes (which wound up with bits of his hair in them, but Ford ate them anyway); by then the bleeding had stopped, and they had managed to ascertain that no, Ford’s nose had not actually been broken by the punch.

Stan still looked ashamed of himself, but he went and got dressed for the day in clothes that were at least clean now, but still looked like they could come apart at the seams any second. Ford, in the interest of obeying the law of equivalent exchange, took the opportunity to do the dishes before getting dressed himself.

When they met up again in the kitchen, they stared at each other uncertainly for a moment. Then Stan said with a cough, “I’ll, um, let ya get back ta work or whatever. I’ll try not ta break anything.”

If the phrase had seemed the least bit barbed or sarcastic, Ford would probably have gotten defensive and they might have started fighting. However, it sounded more like he was trying his hardest to be conciliatory. So instead Ford said softly before he could leave the room, “Stanley, wait.”

Stan looked over at him expectantly-or nervously. Or a little of both.

Ford swallowed...and at the last second he changed his mind and said, “I was actually wondering if you wanted to go visit some caves with me.”

“...Caves,” Stan said, tone a little flat.

“Yes. As I told you earlier, I’m a little stuck in my research on why Gravity Falls has such a high level of weirdness magnetism. And I was thinking of going on a hike to a series of caves with some ancient drawings, left by the earliest settlers of this town. Maybe they can give me some answers. You should come.”

Ford tried to make his expression inviting. If he kept reaching out, tried to make it clear to his brother that he _ wanted _ him to stay, maybe it would be easier for them to talk about things.

Stan chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. Then, at last, he shrugged.

“What the heck. Beats sitting around watching my hair grow.”

“Great! I’ll start figuring out what supplies we’ll need!” And Ford hurried out of the kitchen.

_ You’re being too eager again, Stanford. _

_ It’s worth it! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Why do you keep having Stan punch Ford in your stories? It's not nice.  
Also me: But it's funny.  
Me: ...Sometimes I worry about you.


	5. Beginning the trek

The rest of the morning was filled up with Ford gathering supplies that he thought were necessary, including a Ziplock baggie filled with extra pens (just in case), his journal, an assortment of emergency supplies for protective spells, curses, and other things for dealing with the creatures that lurked in the forest, and his nice down sleeping bag. Oh, and of course a large bag of jelly beans.

Stan prepared by taking his newly laundered things out of the dryer and stuffing them back into his duffel bag (ha ha, stuffing stuff in his duffel, that was almost a poem), before going out to the Stanley Mobile and rooting through the back seat and trunk to see if they had anything to offer up that might be useful. He decided to bring his brass knuckles, his lighter, both his switchblades and, after some hemming and hawing on the subject, the gun (acquired by methods of somewhat dubious legality, and which definitely was not registered to him) that he mostly just kept for real emergencies.

He had just stowed it in his duffel and zipped it up when Ford approached, the path crunching under his shoes a little.

“The caves I want to visit are about a day’s hike away, and I don’t know how long we’re going to stay there, so you should probably bring at least a few day’s worth...of clothes…” He faltered; that probably meant he’d remembered that a few day’s worth of clothes literally constituted all the clothes Stan possessed. Dangit. “...Do you have anything to help you keep warm? It’s starting to get cold at night.”

Stan shrugged. “I got a blanket.” He held it up as evidence; it was a long, handmade one that some kind soul had given him one night while he was in Utah. It wasn’t the warmest thing in the world, since it had a lot of little holes in it because it was crocheted, but you know-waste not.

Ford did that little frown thing again. “I’ve got some extra blankets we can bring.”

Stan bristled. “I don’t need any handouts, I’ll be fine.”

The frown became deepened by exasperation. “It’s called ‘sharing,’ Stanley.” He quirked an eyebrow. “You remember what sharing is, right?”

Stan, after a moment of hesitation, tilted his head in mock confusion. “Sha-shar-um, sha-”

Ford rolled his eyes and turned back to the house. Stan couldn’t help smiling a tiny bit.

* * *

In the end they brought three large, thick blankets in addition to everything else, and a couple of pillows. Ford didn’t have a tent, but the weather was supposed to be relatively fine, and either way they’d be staying in a cave for a while, out of the elements.

So, after they made sure the house and the car were securely locked up, and that they had all the supplies they needed for the journey, they set off into the forest.

Stan had to push himself a little, since it had been a few months since he’d had to run for his life from an angry crowd and was therefore not as in shape as he would have liked, but he managed to keep up with Ford well enough as his brother strode happily through the trees. Which was more than a little surprising, considering which one of them had gotten a D- in gym on several consecutive occasions.

The walk was mostly quiet, save for Ford occasionally pointing out some interesting flora or fauna, or scribbling something in his journal. It wasn’t as awkward as the night before had been, but it wasn’t exactly as comfortable as Stan would have liked. However, it seemed wrong to disrupt the silence, so he kept quiet until they reached the crest of a hill.

“Whoa,” he breathed, staring down at the crystal blue lake lying in front of them.

It was farther up than Gravity Falls Lake, and smaller-but it was also far more beautiful. The water was so still that the mountains reflected in it seemed to blend in the middle, and the shore was decorated with tiny green trees so it literally looked like something that should be on a calendar.

Ford turned and, to his surprise, smiled at him.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

Stan nodded.

“Believe it or not, there’s a family of sirens living in an underwater cave out in the middle there.” He pointed towards the center of the lake. “I actually dated one of them for a while...but it didn’t work out.”

Stan’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe his ears.

“Wait, what?!”

“Yeah, I know, it’s crazy! I never expected to find a full colony of them out here-”

“You _dated _ someone?!”

Ford’s excited glee over being able to once again discuss the weirdness of this place dropped, replaced by slight confused annoyance.

“...Yes, Stanley. She was a siren. They’re this type of bird-human hybrid that-”

“No, no, sorry.” Stan waved his hands, trying really hard to suppress the smirk that was trying to work its way onto his face over a chance to do some partly-sincere, good-natured ribbing. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea that _ you _ actually _ dated _someone.”

“...Shut up, Stanley.”

Stan started guffawing anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's in "Gravity Falls: Lost Legends" if you don't believe me.  
And I've wanted to write this part for a long, long time, because to me it seems EXACTLY how Stan would react to that tidbit of news.


	6. Climb Every Mountain

“It didn’t last very long,” Ford admitted, deciding after a few seconds that Stan’s laughter wasn’t malicious and he didn’t need to take too much offense. “Among other problems, her family never approved of me. In fact, her grandmother demanded on numerous occasions to know why she hadn’t eaten me yet.”

Stan cackled again. “Sounds feisty; I like it.”

Ford could feel himself blushing, and hurriedly he said, “Well, in the long run we decided it was better to end things.” Then, in a desperate attempt to change the subject, he asked, “How about you? Any relationships recently?”

Within seconds all traces of Stan’s amusement were gone. He looked away, towards the mountains, and finally said, “Those caves are this way, right?” And without further ado he started walking.

Ford hurried after him. His first impulse was to point out the obvious cop-out and that if he was going to make Ford share details, then he had to too in the name of fairness. Instead, though, he asked after a second, “That bad, huh?”

Stan’s shoulders tightened... and then lowered. “Yeah.”

“Was she the one who…?” Ford indicated the bruises.

Stan’s chin dipped in a terse nod. Then, seeming to make an internal decision, he put on his patented ‘I am absolutely fine, you don’t need to worry about me’ smile. “Aside from that, y’know, she was just my type. We even got married for a hot minute, before I realized she was after my car.”

Ford gaped at Stan; then, in the same tone of voice his brother had used, he asked, “You _ married _ someone?!”

Stan laughed a little and shoved his shoulder. “Ah, shut up.”

* * *

An hour later they reached the trail leading up the side of the mountain, and began the somewhat more arduous climb to the caves. They didn’t talk much, saving their breath for walking uphill. Inside Ford’s head, however, he was abuzz with excitement.

What kind of answers would they find?

Maybe there would be some kind of ancient cave drawings depicting how so many weird and fantastic beings had arrived at Gravity Falls, and why they chose to stay here.

Maybe he’d find an ancient curse, or a magical talisman, or even the entrance to the alien crash site he was sure was around here somewhere! Either way, all his questions would be answered; he could already envision himself standing in front of an adoring crowd, accepting an award for his brilliance in discovering this fascinating town, and not a single soul looking askance at his extra fingers. In his mind’s eye, his family was standing at the front of the crowd. Mom had tears in her eyes; Pa was actually smiling under his mustache, giving him that little nod of approval that meant he was truly impressed; Shermie and his family were next to them, cheering their heads off; and Stanley-

Where did that leave Stanley?

Speak of the devil, his brother was currently flopping down against the side of the mountain with an exhausted groan, not appearing to care about getting his freshly washed clothes and hair dirty.

Stanley had not exactly been in this fantasy for a long time. Partly-well, _ mostly _ because Ford had tried his hardest not to think about him. But in his best moments, he’d often pictured him breaking all the rules to leap up onto the stage next to him, throwing an arm around his neck in an affectionate headlock and pointing at him in a way that said, “Yes! This is my genius brother, people! Look at this guy and how awesome he is!” Or something to that effect, in less stilted tones. In his worst moments, Stan had not been at the ceremony at all-but even then, sometimes he dared to imagine him watching it somewhere, like maybe on a television in a dingy bar, hopefully regretting how deeply he’d wronged him.

But now here he was, just like old times, joining Ford in one of his adventures looking for the supernatural.

If this was the breakthrough he was hoping for, where did Stan fit into his little fantasy?

* * *

Stan gulped down some water, and poured more of it onto his head, before finally standing up.

“We almost there?” he asked, pushing his damp bangs out of his face.

Ford shook himself. “Yes, I believe the caves we’re looking for are about ten minutes away.”

For a minute he thought his brother was going to groan about the extra distance...but he just sighed and readjusted his bags.

“Lead on, Poindexter.”

It occurred to Ford that Stan might be afraid to complain about being tired, either out of some misplaced machismo or fear of being left behind if Ford thought he couldn’t handle all this walking. It felt more than a little odd, considering how many of their childhood conversations had been somewhere along the lines of “Wait up, Stanley!” “Yeah, you should keep up!”

He also suspected any questioning on his part about whether Stan needed to stop and rest would be met with stubborn assertion that he was just fine. So instead he said, “There’s no rush. I’m a little winded from the climb,” and sat down on a nearby boulder, pulling out his own water and taking what he realized was a much-needed drink.

Stan, after a second, shrugged and flopped down on the ground again.

Once they were both sufficiently refreshed they resumed their little trek, and a little under ten minutes later they were standing at the mouth of one of the caves.


	7. Pandora's Box

How hard was it to just tell someone “I’m sorry”?

Evidently, extremely hard.

Stan had thought about it several times as they hiked, wracking his brains for a way to bring up the elephant in the room, metaphorically speaking (hey, Ford wasn’t the only one who could remember idioms and big words). Maybe IT would be easier to talk about out here in the fresh air, surrounded by beautiful peaceful trees or whatever. But every time he opened his mouth to bring IT up, the words froze in his throat, or something that was a completely different topic came out.

By the time they’d reached the caves he’d given up trying, and decided to just focus on whatever it was Ford was looking for.

The cool darkness inside was a welcome relief from the hot summer sun. Stan let out a sigh of relief, and dug out his lighter. It wouldn’t be a lot of light, and he probably needed to refill it soon, but-

Behind him, Ford cleared his throat. “I have a lantern we can use.”

Stan slowly turned, hoping he wasn’t visibly embarrassed, and lit the lantern. Within seconds the cave was flooded with golden-orange light, showing...a lot of stalactites and stalagmites and a bunch of rocks.

“Nice place. But I thought you said there were paintings or whatever.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “They’re further in. Come on.” He held up the lantern, and led the way into the tunnel.

* * *

It was a good thing, Stan thought, that he was afraid of heights, not closed spaces. Because after ten minutes of walking through darkness, with only the sounds of dripping water and their shoes clomping across the stone floor, and the air becoming mustier and thicker-feeling, he was beginning to miss the open sky. But at least he reassured himself that he could still breathe, not like in some of the places he’d been during the last five years. Heh heh, weak laughter.

Eventually, though, they reached what he was gonna go out on a limb and assume was their intended destination, since the tunnel opened into an enormous cavern-and at the far end was a wall covered in the freakiest picture he’d ever seen.

Stan whistled after a second; the sound echoed through the cavern.

“Never thought I’d see people worshipping a triangle before,” he said.

“They’re not worshipping it,” Ford denied indignantly.

Stan gave him a look. “They’re  _ bowing _ to it. Pretty sure that’s the definition of worship.”

Ford decided to ignore him, and stepped forward, holding the lantern up so he could read the inscription underneath the drawing; it wasn’t any kind of alphabet Stan knew of, but apparently his brother could understand it. “It says here-” his voice began to rise with excitement- “that this is an incantation to summon a being with answers! This could be what I’ve been searching for-I just need to read this here and see what happens!”

He was opening his mouth to do exactly that, but-

“What’s that part say?” Stan cut him off.

Ford straightened up and glared at him. “What part?”

“The part at the bottom, in rust-colored stuff that I’m hoping is just ink or whatever.”

Ford followed his gaze to the writing that Stan still couldn’t make head or tail of, but that looked suitably ominous. Particularly because it looked a little like it had been scrawled with the tip of someone’s finger.

“Oh, that’s a warning saying not to read the inscription.”

Stan gaped at his twin in flat disbelief. “...And that’s not sending up any red flags for you?”

“Come on, Stan, didn’t you hear what I just said? This is my chance to figure out the connection of everything-why so many weird things are attracted to Gravity Falls! I  _ need _ this, it’s my life’s work!” Ford’s voice was trembling with desperate excitement.

“And you think the way to do that is with a magic spell or whatever?” Stan scoffed. “Yeah, that’s a real believable thesis statement.” He assumed that was what you used when you were putting together a research grant or whatever. “Besides, it’s always a really bad sign when  _ I’m _ the one being cautious about something.”

Surprisingly, this seemed to get through to Ford; he hesitated, frowning thoughtfully, and turned back to glare at the inscription.

“You’re the one who likes to say there are no easy solutions,” Stan said softly. “If a thing seems like it’s too good to be true, it probably is. Take it from me. I know.”

Ford’s shoulders drooped. “I’ve tried everything else. This is the only option I have left.” And before Stan could keep arguing, point out that he was being an idiot and that he wasn’t even in his thirties yet, he literally had his whole life ahead of him for his life’s work-he began reading the inscription.

And after he finished, Stan quickly repeated the same syllables his brother had.

“Stanley-!” Ford started to object.

Stan finished speaking, and gave him a defiant glare. “If you just made a real stupid decision, I ain’t letting you make it by yourself.”

At the risk of sounding cheesy, the old phrase flitted into his thoughts:  _ Wherever we go, we go together. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Presenting Stan Pines: professional game-changer at work.


	8. Escape to the Mindscape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday the 13th, everyone. Look out for weirdos in hockey masks.

At first, what Ford felt was mainly indignation and even a touch of resentment.

This was supposed to be _ his _ big moment, and Stan had jumped in and stolen part of it for himself! Gah, this- _ this _ was one of the few things he had _ not _ missed about being a twin: having to share all the time, rarely having anything that was his and his alone.

Had he thought to take a deep breath and calm down, perhaps he would have acknowledged that he was exaggerating a little, and Stan was just trying to protect him. Or perhaps not, since Ford’s nickname might as well have been “He Whose Persian Flaw Is An Inability To Recognize His Flaws Until It’s Too Late.”

Then he felt apprehension, as he waited for something to happen.

And increasing levels of disappointment as nothing did.

With a growl of annoyance he looked back at the inscription to see if there was anything about it not working if too many people said it at once, or it only working if a certain type of person, say a genius with an avid interest in scientific and paranormal research (in a random, nonspecific example) said it, _ by themselves _.

But there were no indications that they’d done anything wrong. He had no outlet to pour blame on for this, and that just made him angrier. Once again, he’d gotten a hopeful lead in his research, only for it all to be for nothing.

With a loud, frustrated yell, Ford slammed the side of his fist into the cave wall. It felt just as painful as you would imagine it is to punch a cave wall; Ford didn’t care. He just did it again, harder. He was pulling back to do it a third time when a hand grabbed his wrist.

“Ford, stop!”

Ford struggled for a second, before sagging weakly, the fury bleeding out as quickly as it had come. Stan released him, and sighed.

“Sorry, Poindexter. Maybe we need ta make a blood sacrifice or something for it ta work.”

Ford’s shoulders only sagged further. “There’s no indication that a sacrifice is required.” His hand was starting to throb; he turned it and noted that he hadn’t cut it open or anything, but a large bruise was already starting to blossom. But as best he could tell, at least it wasn’t broken.

“...Well, maybe whoever it is, they’re just running late.” Stan was using his ‘trying to be funny to make the situation better somehow’ voice. “I mean, if you’re a being with answers, you’ve probably got a lotta clients wanting to ask you what the meaning of life is and why grocery stores sell hot dogs eight to a pack and hot dog buns ten to a pack and stuff. He’s gotta be a busy guy.”

Despite his despondency, Ford felt his lips curve upward the tiniest bit. He had missed _ this _ part of being a twin: having someone try to cheer him up when he got low.

He turned away from the painting with a sigh, and dug out his sleeping bag. “We might as well set up camp here.”

Stan shrugged. “Kay. That’ll make it easier for this yahoo ta find us.”

Ford’s intention was to just sit and write in his journal; he hadn’t actually planned on going to sleep. But after a while, he got chilly and crawled into his sleeping bag, instead of just sitting on it like he had been; and after that he felt progressively cozy and warm, and before he knew it, his head was flopping forward onto the pages and his eyes were flickering shut.

What seemed like only seconds later he was opening his eyes...into a place he’d never been before.

* * *

Everything was suffused with a strange blue light, and despite there being no visible ground his feet made audible echoing noises as he walked. Beautiful old books hovered in the air, along with papers covered in equations and drawings. And floating among them were hundreds upon thousands of dollar bills.

Ford blinked at those in bewilderment; if this was a dream, it was his weirdest one yet. Especially since he was realizing that, since normally he wasn’t a very lucid dreamer, much to his disappointment.

One of the bills, flapping its ends on occasion like bird wings, glided under his nose; he snatched it out of the air and squinted at it. It was a hundred.

A few seconds later, he got an answer for its presence in his dream, along with all its companions: a voice behind him said in awe, “I think I just died and went to heaven!”

Sure enough, Stan was there, grabbing handfuls of money out of the air and stuffing them greedily into his pockets, grinning.

He noticed Ford watching him, arms folded, and waved.

“Hi, Sixer! This is great! As soon as I catch all of these, I can finally come home!”

“Don’t get too happy,” Ford said, “I’m pretty sure we’re both dreaming, so that money isn’t actually real.” Then he registered the last sentence, and blinked. “Wait, what?”

Stan’s attempts to get more money slowed, and the smile faded. “...We’re dreaming?”

Ford recomposed himself. “Well, I am, at least. I’m not sure you’re not just part of my dream. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“We were in the cave,” Stan said promptly, even as his expression became more dejected. He let the last few bills slip through his fingers back into the air, and turned away with a small sigh.

“Stanley-”

Then from behind them an unfamiliar voice said, “Well, hiya, smart guy!”


	9. You can't con a conman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I did a good job portraying Bill; I haven't had much experience delving into his character.

_ Should’ve known not to get my hopes up. _

Stan had gotten stupid. He’d been feeling happy for once, and forgotten his own advice: if something seems too good to be true, it probably is, especially if it’s random flying money that’s there for the taking. Of course, he could use the excuse that he was dreaming, and so not exactly as clear-headed as usual, but to him it seemed like a pretty pitiful excuse.

And then the triangle showed up.

He was literally a talking, floating, one-eyed triangle. With a top hat and a cane and a stupid little bow tie.

Stan briefly wondered if he was on something.

Except that Ford jumped, and let out a startled gasp; that made it more likely that this was real.

“Whoa, don’t have a heart attack, you’re not ninety-two yet!” the triangle said, circling Ford in a way that was the tiniest bit uncanny, in Stan’s opinion. His one eye barely seemed to leave his brother’s face.

“Who-who are you?” Ford asked, eyes wide behind their glasses.

“Name’s Bill!” He tipped his hat and tilted his body in a kind of bow.

_ Geez, how corny _ is _ this guy? _

“And your name’s Stanford Pines, the man who changed the world, but I’m getting ahead of ourselves-hey!”

His little spiel was interrupted by a small flock of bills (the normal money kind) smashing into his hat and knocking it clean off.

Bill had to fumble to catch it, and then he took a moment to stare in bewilderment at the flying money as they did a loop in front of him. Only then did he finally notice Stanley.

Maybe it was his imagination, but it seemed like the edges of the triangle became tinged with red for a second. But he blinked and Bill was completely yellow and black, eye creased in what was probably supposed to be a wide, friendly-looking smile.

“Oh, where are my manners?” Bill asked nobody in particular. He floated the ten feet that brought him right in front of Stan, and tipped his hat again. “_ Stanley _ Pines, I wasn’t expecting to see you here too! Great that you could join the party!”

Instantly the little red flag, first created in the cave by that little note under the painting, was hanging in the front of Stan’s brain surrounded by bright flashing lights.

_ Jerk alert. _

He forced his mouth to curve upward in a smile-the kind he used on a crowd that could turn into an angry mob if he wasn’t careful.

“Howdy.” His gaze travelled upwards. “Nice hat.”

Bill patted the brim proudly. “Oh, this old thing? Yeah, it’s my favorite, decided years ago that it’s just right for my image!”

Stan really, really hoped this weirdo couldn’t read minds.

* * *

Bill floated back to Ford, waving a hand. A few seconds later both men were startled by two fancy armchairs appearing behind them and scooping them up; Stan’s zoomed over until he was right next to his brother.

“I gotta admit, this kind of disrupts my plans a little,” Bill said, creating a chair for himself. “I was gonna have us get to know each other with a game of inter-dimensional chess, but that’s not exactly your game, is it, Stanley?”

“There’s a reason why it’s called a ‘bored’ game,” Stan deadpanned.

Ford huffed in annoyance. “Well, maybe if you had actually taken the time to learn the strategies growing up you would have more fun playing it!”

“I have a million better things to do than let my life go by trying to figure out how to make some stupid wooden figures move! Besides, it wasn’t any fun playing against someone who beat me every time and rubbed it in my face afterwards!”

“I didn’t do that!” Ford’s cheeks flushed. Then, more hesitantly, “...Did I?”

“Yeah, ya did. Up until we were twelve and I swore off board games forever.”

“SO,” Bill interrupted, “I was thinking, how about we play something more to your speed?” A deck of playing cards and a few stacks of poker chips materialized in front of them, accompanied by three bottles of cheap-looking beer.

It was tempting; really tempting. Just unwind a little, get to know this stranger by finding out how good he was at bluffing (he was pretty sure the game would end up between just the two of them; he’d always been able to play Ford for a sap).

And yet...something made Stan say, “I’ll pass, thanks.”

It happened again: the edges of the triangle took on a brief red glow. But then he shrugged, and laughed dismissively.

“Sure, sure, I get it! You’re feeling all business today!”

The items disappeared as soon as they’d come, and Bill leaned back, folding his arms behind his...head? The spot behind his eye.

* * *

“So, I bet you’re both wondering why you’re here. And I’m not talking in the philosophical sense.”

“You...you said something about me changing the world?” Ford asked, tilting his head; his eyes had brightened the way they did every time a teacher praised him for figuring out an answer nobody else in class had.

“Riiiiight, yes!” Bill waved a hand. “Long story short, I’m what I guess you could call a muse. Once every hundred years I pick the most brilliant mind on earth, and offer to inspire them in their life’s work. And this century, Stanford, _ you _ are the lucky guy!”

Ford’s jaw dropped. After a few seconds he managed to stammer out, “M-me? You think I’m-”

“Oh, come on, don’t be so modest! You think anyone else in the world has as many PhDs as you’re gonna get?” Bill leaped out of his chair and glided over, stretching one of his tiny arms and wrapping it around Ford’s shoulder. “Not to mention nobody seems to have ever noticed how freaky this little town is, let alone bothered to study it in any kinda detail, before you showed up! Someone as observant and talented as you deserves to be recognized for it!”

Ford was looking a bit overwhelmed by so much praise at once, but at the same time he was starting to grin like an idiot.

“So, is it a deal? You wanna let me stick around ta give ya some help, Stanford?”

And at that point Stan decided that enough was enough.

He cleared his throat, loudly; both his brother and the triangle freak startled and whipped around to stare at him. Evidently they had forgotten his presence, big surprise.

“So, uh, what other yahoos have you been a muse for?” Stan asked, eyebrows raised in mock curiosity.

Bill reacted naturally enough; he waved his free hand lazily in the air. “Oh, _ all _ the great minds from this dimension-fellas like Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Nikola Tesla, people like that.”

The mock curiosity became mock surprise. “I thought da Vinci and Michelangelo were alive at the same time.” Hey, what do you know, he _ did _ remember something from high school world history.

“...What’s your point?” Bill asked.

“You said you picked one mind a century.”

Again, the triangle tried to play it off. “Eh, I was feeling generous that century. Gave old Mikey a few pointers on that chapel roof of his.”

“...Right.” Stan sat back in his chair, arms folded.

Bill was just turning back to Ford, probably about to reiterate his question about whether they had a deal, when Stan asked, “Why was there a warning not ta summon you?”

The triangle looked back at him, now with visible exasperation in his eye. “What?”

“In the spot where we found the thing talkin’ about how ta summon you, there was a note at the bottom sayin’ not ta read the inscription. What was that all about?” He tilted his head a little. “You get an unhappy customer last time or somethin’?”

Bill groaned. “Ugh, Stanford, your brother always this much of a buzzkill?”

“It’s just a question.” Stan spread his hands innocently. “I wanna make sure we know what we’re gettin’ into before makin’ any decisions, cuz I read that thing too.”

This time the whole triangle turned red. But with a visible effort he calmed himself. “Okay, okay, I’ll give you a few minutes to figure this out in private. But I need ya ta make a decision quick; I got a few runner-ups out there who’ll probably snap me up in seconds if you turn me down, Stanford!”

He snapped his fingers.

* * *

Stan’s eyes flew open; they were back in the cave. Thankfully the lantern was still lit, but the light had dimmed while they were asleep; he leaned over to it and turned it up.

And then he got a good look at Ford’s face; it had become flooded with red, and a vein was throbbing in the side of his neck.

_ Uh-oh. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, on the one hand, Stan's not buying Bill's BS.  
On the other hand, Ford is more than a little p_ssed at him right now.  
...The latter could be a problem.
> 
> Again, I hope I did a good job with Bill, and that the conversation was realistic. I kind of wanted to get this out, since I know it's later in the week than usual.


	10. The Ford Ultimatum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy early Christmas/late Hanukkah/insert holiday of choice here. It's another chapter!

“Sixer, wait just a second, before you say anything. I know you liked him and the nice stuff he said about ya, but remember what I said earlier about a thing that’s too good ta be true? That guy is an example of what I was talkin’ about,” Stan said quickly, raising his hands like he was trying to calm a rabid dog. “Somethin’ about him didn’t feel right ta me, and I know you’re desperate for those answers you want but I think you should take a second to think about this before you-”

“ _ STOP. TALKING. _ ”

Ford shoved his way out of the sleeping bag and got to his feet, towering over his still-seated twin. Calling his current emotion ‘angry’ would not have been a strong enough description; even their father at his angriest couldn’t have matched it at that moment. He could feel his hands trembling, itching to either start throwing punches or wrap themselves around his brother’s throat, he wasn’t sure which at the moment.

What he finally did, though, was bark out a harsh laugh.

“I really thought you’d changed.”

Stan flinched like he’d lashed out at him; Ford just kept spitting the words out, hoping he could feel the venom in them.

“That phone call, all the little concessions of yours, I thought maybe they meant something. I should’ve known better-”

Stan leaped onto his feet. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Any trace of calm left in Ford’s body evaporated. He lunged at Stan; unfortunately, his brother dodged him so all he grabbed was two handfuls of wall. He rounded on Stan again.

“This is my  _ last chance _ , Stanley! It’s a chance for me to be mentored by a brilliant mind from another  _ dimension _ , and discover the answers to everything! And you’re putting it in jeopardy, you-!”

Some of the words he shouted are best left to the imagination.

He lunged at Stan again; again, Stan dodged, this time grabbing him by the shoulders and pinning him against the wall.

“ _ Listen to me _ , Ford! What kind of wacko just sits around for a hundred years and waits to pick only one person to give all the answers in the universe or whatever? And even if someone like that actually exists, what kind of price is he gonna ask? If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that he’s not doing this for free-no one’s that nice! And either way, I’m pretty sure the only reason he came to you is cuz you summoned him, not cuz you’re destined to change the world or whatever!” He winced a little at his own words once he heard what he’d just said, but then plowed on stubbornly, “Everything about this feels wrong to me, and if you’d get out of your inflated ego a little you’d see it too!”

Ford finally got free enough to shove him off. “ _ WHY DO YOU HAVE TO TAKE AWAY EVERY GOOD THING THAT HAPPENS TO ME?! _ ”

* * *

Stan’s face twisted with something resembling anguish, and maybe even guilt, for a second-before he snarled, “There is nothing good about that  _ thing _ !”

“Why, because he’s different?” Ford yelled, fists clenching again. “Because he’s weird? Because he’s a  _ freak _ ?!”

“No, because he’s obviously  _ lying _ ! What’s it gonna take for you ta see that I’m just tryin’ ta look out for you?!”

The fiery rage that had been fueling Ford suddenly evaporated...leaving behind something much colder, and far more dangerous.

“You want me to believe you?”

Stan nodded, still looking like he expected another attack. “Yes.”

“Well then.” Abruptly Ford turned away and marched over to his bag, pulling it open and rooting around for a second before lifting out the curious item he’d brought along on a whim: a plastic baggie containing a set of bright gold dentures.

“I call these truth-telling teeth,” he said, opening the baggie and holding out the teeth for Stan to see. “Anyone who wears them is unable to speak anything but the truth, whether they want to or not.”

“...Yeah, I kind of figured that from the name,” Stan murmured, staring owlishly at the teeth as they reflected in the lamplight.

“You want to convince me you’re telling the truth, Stanley?” Ford asked icily. “Then  _ this _ is the way to do it.”

And he stood there, waiting to hear what kind of lame excuse Stan would use to try to weasel out of this and prove that he really was nothing but a liar and a thief who was just jealous of-

The self-righteous wrath in his chest was snuffed out by Stan snatching the truth teeth from his hand, and shoving them into his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, that was cruel of Ford. At least, I feel like it was kind of cruel.  
But he's hurt, and feeling betrayed, and it's making him lash out at Stan in the worst way possible.  
At least this way he'll hear some things that he really needs to, right?


	11. The truth and nothing but

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan has a bad case of verbal diarrhea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warning: this chapter has slightly suicidal references, and a lot of dark thoughts in general because Stan is one unhappy puppy.

Stan’s hands shook, and the sore side of his face throbbed when he opened his mouth to fit the truth teeth inside. But he didn’t let that stop him. Ford wanted to know the truth so bad? Stan’s earnest promise that he wanted to protect him from himself wasn’t good enough? Fine. He’d give him what he wanted, if it meant stopping him from choosing to trust that three-sided loser.

As soon as the dentures were settled over his teeth, a golden glow filled up his mouth; he hadn’t been expecting that. When it faded, he looked at his brother, arms folded, expression challenging.

If it had been different circumstances, he might have laughed at Ford’s expression. His jaw was slack, and his eyes were wide behind their glasses. Stan waited for him to ask a question or something...but Ford actually seemed uncertain about his next move, opening his mouth a couple of times but not letting out any actual words. So Stan decided he needed to take the initiative.

“I don’t trust the triangle cuz his story’s got more holes in it than a Swiss cheese. And cuz he reminds me of me when I’m tryin’ ta sell something fake to an unsuspecting sucker.”

Ford didn’t even seem like he was about to scold him for admitting to being a conman; his eyebrows just drew together in a brief frown.

And then, without even realizing he was about to say it, Stan continued.

“And I never meant ta break your project.”

_ That _ finally got more of a reaction: Ford snapped out of whatever shock he was in, and his eyes flickered with anger at the dredged-up memory. But still he was silent.

Stan shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “I was mad at it, yeah. Blamed it cuz you were gonna run off ta do great stuff and leave me behind ta be a barnacle scraper in Jersey forever-” even now the words were still bitter in Stan’s mouth- “cuz of how great it was. And I was mad that the principal said I was worthless in front of my family, and nobody seemed ta disagree with him.”

“I never said-!” Ford began to object.

“No, you didn’t!” Stan spat at him. “You didn’t. Say. _ Anything_.”

Ford’s words stuttered to a halt.

“So I yelled at your machine, and punched the table right in front of it, and a thingy on the front fell off. I got scared, and quickly put it back on and left, and told myself you were too smart ta build somethin’ that’d break just cuz some idiot hit the table it was on. But I guess even you couldn’t be prepared for _ this _ idiot.” He jabbed a thumb at himself.

* * *

Stan thought that would be the end of his words for now, but no. It was almost like the teeth were designed to automatically say whatever came into his head. And right now, there were a lot of things going on in his head.

“Since then I’ve been doin’ whatever jobs would help me survive ta see the next day, and whatever I thought would get me enough money ta maybe come home, even though I secretly know that’s likely never gonna happen cuz if Pa wanted me back he’d have let me come home by now, I just don’t wanna admit it ta myself cuz if I do then what’s the point of keeping going? Now I’m gonna avoid eye contact with you by pretending ta be interested in this creepy picture.”

Inwardly Stan cursed as he turned and glared at the drawing of Bill; these dumb teeth didn’t even allow him the right to hide the reasons behind his actions.

He heard the sound of his brother’s shoes tapping against the cave floor, coming a little closer; but then he opened his mouth again, and more came spilling out.

“I’ve gotten in trouble with a lotta people, and got a lotta scars. A few of ‘em were made by me, actually-”

“What?!”

“-cuz I have little ta no sense of self-worth left, and I’m pretty sure if I dropped dead nobody would care unless I owe them money.” Stan blinked. “Wow. _ I _ didn’t even realize I felt this bad about myself, at least not consciously.”

It was both terrifying and oddly a relief to be unable to lie; he didn’t have to pick and choose his words, they just came out all on their own. But they were also dragging all his dark secrets to light, and it _ hurt_, it hurt so bad, but he couldn’t stop them. And he was also starting to feel a hot, burning coal growing in his chest, spreading to his fists and the back of his neck and down into the base of his gut, with every word he spoke.

“I’ve tried ta call you so many times ta say I was sorry about what I did, but each time I just hung up without speakin’ cuz I was scared you wouldn’t wanna hear it, or even if you did let me say my piece and believed me, it wouldn’t matter, you’d still want me outta your life cuz I messed things up for you so bad. The only reason why I said anything this last time-” he swallowed_\- _ “was cuz this old lady told me you were gonna destroy the world by makin’ friends with the wrong people if we didn’t make up, and I’m pretty sure that jerk-” he pointed to the drawing- “is who she was talkin’ about.”

Stan spun around to face his brother at last, the heat roaring to life in his words. “Right now, though, I just kinda wanna punch you.”

* * *

Ford took a small step back; Stan just took one towards him, looming in the lamplight.

“Because even if I deserve it, it _ hurts_, Stanford.”

With each sentence, he advanced on his twin. Ford kept stumbling back, looking like he was trying to face down an angry tiger.

“It hurts that you and everyone else in the world thought I was worthless even before I became just another bum livin’ on the streets.”

Closer.

“It hurts that all it took was one dumb mistake for you ta throw me away.”

Closer.

“And it hurts that things got so messed up between us that _ this_-” he jabbed a vicious finger at the golden teeth- “is what you’ll believe.”

Practically nose to nose with Ford.

”Also, that sweater vest makes you look like a dork.”

Finally, the words ran out.

For a moment Stan just glared at Ford, chest heaving. Then he asked, in a tone dripping sarcastic politeness, “Can I take them out now? _ Please_?”

Ford closed his eyes. “Yes, Stanley. Take them out.”

Stan ripped the truth teeth out of his mouth and shoved them into Ford’s chest, so he was forced to fumble to catch them. Then he turned away.

* * *

More than anything, Stan wanted to leave. He wanted to run, get into his car and drive as far away as he could get before running out of gas. But even if he managed to get out of this cave on his own (there was only one lantern, and even at the peak of his rage he didn’t have the heart to take it and leave Ford here alone in the dark), he had no idea how to get back to Ford’s house; odds were he’d just end up getting eaten by some supernatural whatever.

Like it or not (and right now, it was definitely_ not_), he was stuck here with Ford.

So instead Stan just sat down on his pile of blankets, with his back to his brother, wrapping one of them around his shoulders, and curled in on himself, and tried to block out everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Ouch.


	12. Lex talionis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another Christmas present for all of you who have waited so patiently, and read with such joy. Merry Christmas, everyone.

Ford was an absolute heel.

Actually he deserved a far worse description, but until he could think of one that was harsh enough he was going with “heel.”

At first, all he felt was a kind of numbness in his chest, and all he could do was stand there, staring at his twin’s back. But slowly the full impact of Stan’s words sank in-_You didn’t. Say. _Anything_;_ _I’m pretty sure if I dropped dead nobody would care; It hurts that all it took was one dumb mistake for you ta throw me away-_and then the pain came, both vicious and visceral, sending him stumbling back against the cave wall, and from there sliding down until he was sitting on the floor.

Ford’s vision was suddenly very blurry, and there had to be a leak in here or something because there was water on his face, except it was a lot warmer than he’d expect cave water to be, and he knew what was really going on but he didn’t want to admit it since their father had drilled it into him so many times that Men. Didn’t. Cry.

Ford closed his eyes, and bit down on his hand, trying to calm himself or at least keep it quiet; he didn’t deserve comfort, even in the unlikely event that Stan would be willing to give it, so he didn’t want his brother to feel any kind of obligation to do so.

Despite his best efforts, though, it was ten minutes before he opened his eyes again. To his relief, Stan hadn’t left; he was still sitting with his back to him, visibly shivering. Ford rubbed his face on his sleeve, and then cleaned his glasses of the “cave water.” His head throbbed, a sign that he’d gotten dehydrated during the last ten minutes of just sitting here and letting “cave water” drip on his face and it was giving him a headache; Ford dismissed it as immaterial in comparison to figuring out what he should do now.

Stan’s dumb mistake that had bruised Ford’s ego was so minor compared to the damage he’d inflicted in return. His brother didn’t even seem to see himself as a person anymore; he’d accused Ford of “throwing him away,” like he was a broken toy or something.

He remembered what Stan’s reason was for coming here in the first place: someone had told him Ford would destroy the world if he didn’t. He didn’t think he could come for any other reason, even though he was living a terrible, hellish lifestyle.

And it was all Ford’s fault.

Ford swallowed, hard. How could he possibly fix all of that?

He looked down at the teeth still clenched in his hand, which he wished now he’d never bothered to pack.

And he came to a decision.

* * *

“Stanley?”

His brother didn’t acknowledge his voice.

Ford cleared his throat and stood, grabbing the lantern and heading towards him. He stopped three feet away, and spoke again.

“Stanley...I’ve been a terrible excuse for a brother.”

Still no reaction.

“Please look at me, Stanley.”

Stan’s shoulders tightened, but Ford waited. After a minute, Stan’s head finally turned, and the upper part of his body twisted around until he was more or less looking at Ford. Who held up the lantern, and opened his mouth so he could see the gold sparkling inside.

Stan’s eyebrows, which seemed to have acquired a unique ability to defy gravity as he’d gotten older, rose up into his bangs. He blinked, and then asked, “...Did you wash those before putting them in your mouth?”

“No, I just wiped them off on my shirt.” Ford winced at his own words; he’d forgotten what it was like to wear the truth teeth.

“Ugh,” Stan grimaced, “y’know, it’s been awhile since I last brushed.”

“I’ve been trying very hard not to think about that ever since I put them in, and now that you brought it up it’s the primary thought running around in my head, so thanks a lot.”

The smirk he received was marginally better than the flat, challenging stare he’d been on the receiving end of...but it didn’t last. At least Stan turned around all the way, though.

“It seemed fitting to make my punishment fit my crime,” Ford said, setting the lantern down. “Specifically my crime of forcing you to wear these; though if you wanted to take my home away and abandon me to an impossible lifestyle I wouldn’t blame you.”

Stan frowned, but it was Ford’s turn to keep speaking.

“I was so wrapped up in my excitement over the brochure on West Coast Tech that I barely paid attention to what our principal said about you. And even what I did hear, I told myself was ridiculous-because _you _ wouldn’t be stuck in Jersey forever, you’d come up with some clever scheme that would make you a ton of money and before anyone could blink you’d be gone on some kind of crazy adventure.” He closed his eyes. “It didn’t occur to me that-you wouldn’t see it that way. I should have thought about the fact that you would be listening in, and how words can hurt you just as easily as they can hurt me.”

Without considering it, Ford began pacing back and forth in front of his “audience,” hands clenched behind his back.

“And I was so angry when you just blew off my feelings about my project and tried to get us back to the boat like none of it was a big deal, but...you were just a kid, you shouldn’t have been thrown out like that, and I knew it. Just a kid who’d made a stupid mistake.”

Ford squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to calm himself before continuing.

“I...I know this sounds bad, but I liked the idea of going away to college because it gave me a chance to just be myself. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about you or wanted you out of my life, or that I didn’t like the idea of sailing away from everything-I was just tired of the way people always grouped us together, and the only way they seemed to see us as individuals was if they were making fun of my hands or being jealous of my intelligence, or if you were causing some kind of trouble. And I wanted a chance to show the world what I could do on my own-” he swallowed- “but I hadn’t meant to hurt you in the process. I _ never _ intended to do that when I talked to you on the swings that evening. And it never did, but it should have, occurred to me that if you were hurt badly enough you might start to-to think your life didn’t matter anymore.”

Stan stared at him, expression unreadable.

Ford started pacing again.

“I know you’re probably right about Bill, I just don’t want to admit it because everything he promised is exactly what I want, and if I’m wrong about him then what does that say about me, that I can be so easily influenced by someone else’s flattery?”

His shoulders hunched in shame. “Nothing good, that’s what.”

“Ford…” Stan began, but Ford cut him off.

“I’m sorry, Stanley. I’m so, so sorry for holding onto a stupid grudge for so long, especially because in the long run the only person who’s suffered because I didn’t get into West Coast Tech is you. I’m sorry it’s taken all this-” he gestured around the cave- “to get that through my thick skull.”

Stan shrugged. “I deserve-”

“_Stop_!” Ford snapped, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, “_Stop _ saying you deserve to be hurt, you _ don’t_! I almost want to punch you for that, except I realize as I’m saying this that hurting you for saying you deserve to be hurt is a little counterproductive.”

Stan managed a laugh; so did Ford. After a second he released his brother, and took a step back, scrubbing a hand over his face again.

“You deserve better than this. Better than me.”

“Then who’s that leave me with? Shermie? He’s not nearly as fun ta get in trouble with.”

“But he never wanted any of this to happen to you. And I did,” Ford admitted, shame rising again.

Stan stared down at the lantern with a dejected frown.

“...I’m a monster,” Ford whispered.

* * *

“No you’re not-” Stan objected, looking up.

“I can say it while wearing these teeth, so that makes it true.”

“But I also said that I deserve everything that happened to me cuz of my mistakes while wearin’ them. Ya can’t have it both ways, Sixer. Either we are what we say we are or we aren’t.”

After a moment Ford sighed and nodded. “I think part of what the teeth perceive as ‘truth’ is based on the perspective of the individual wearer. Which reminds me, you hardly have a right to be criticizing my fashion sense, mullet head.”

Stan looked at a few strands of his hair self-consciously, managing another brittle smile. Then he said at last, “You can probably take those out now.”

Ford pulled out the truth teeth, wiping them on his shirt again. He cleared his throat. “We should figure out what we’re going to do about Bill.”

Even if things didn’t exactly feel resolved between them, Bill had said he was only giving them “a few minutes” to figure things out, and they had taken a lot more time than that; this needed to be dealt with. He hoped that the so-called muse had just given up and left, but something was telling him it wasn’t going to be that simple...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knowing Bill, probably not.
> 
> Sorry if Ford seems a little too emotional, but he's a twenty-two/twenty-three-year-old kid who hasn't spent years being a tough adventurer, so I figure he's more easily emotionally compromised than portal!Ford.  
And maybe I just love screwing with his emotions a little (evil smile).


	13. The best laid plans of Fords and Stans

It’d be easier to have some kind of game plan if they knew more about what the triangle was, Stan mused to himself. Like what kind of powers he had, what he wanted, stuff like that.

_ Whoa, that’s surreal; I’m starting ta sound like Ford. _

He snorted to himself.

“What?” Ford glanced questioningly at him.

“Just wonderin’...any other paintings down here that might tell us about this yahoo? I think we’re gonna need more ta work with than what we got.”

Ford hummed thoughtfully. “There’s probably more in other caves, but this is the only one in this part of the mountains.”

“Well, I think we oughta get rid of this,” Stan said, indicating the picture on the cave wall and the inscription. “Make sure some other idiot doesn’t read it.”

His brother looked appalled at the idea. “But this might be important to preserve for future research! We could write a warning for people not to read-” Ford stopped, and groaned into his hand. “Yeah, I just heard myself.”

Stan let out a small grumble of disappointment at being denied the opportunity to point out the obvious flaw in Ford’s reasoning...but at the same time he was proud of his brother for noticing it on his own. So instead he squinted up at the painting, tilting his head this way and that. “Should’ve brought a sledgehammer.”

“Do you happen to have one of those in your car?” Ford asked dryly.

“Nope. I got a baseball bat, but I doubt that’d be strong enough for solid rock.”

Then Ford’s eyes brightened. “I’ve been working on an acid solution back home that only dissolves inanimate objects! We can throw it on here and just melt it away!”

“...What have you been keeping it in?” A horrifying image floated through Stan’s thoughts of his brother using gnomes or whatever as living containers for the acid.

“It doesn’t destroy  _ everything _ inanimate, Stanley,” Ford said, with a hint of annoyance-or maybe amusement-in his tone. “I designed it specifically so that it could be kept in plastic; there’s a large container of it in the fridge.”

“You have it marked so you won’t accidentally drink it, right?” Stan asked, with a small feeling of deja vu about having to scold his brother for being careless with dangerous experiments.

“Of course I do!” Ford said defensively.

“...And is it written in clear, legible English, with non-invisible ink that you don’t need a fluorescent light to see?” Stan folded his arms and raised a disapproving eyebrow in a way that would have made their mother proud.

Ford spluttered a little, and then said indignantly, “It’s not like I have people coming over a lot, okay? And besides, it’s not  _ that _ toxic-at worst it’ll make you vomit up everything in your stomach and turn your skin green for a few days!”

Stan’s expression was not appeased. “What if I’d gotten up in the night and wanted a midnight snack, and thought it was some kinda juice?”

“Technically its consistency is more like jello…” Finally Ford seemed to realize on his own that he wasn’t helping his case, and his words trailed off into sheepishness. “I’ll use all of it on this. And keep any new batches somewhere else.”

“Good boy.”

* * *

It felt a little like they’d put a tiny bandaid on the still-gaping wound, Stan thought as they repacked their supplies (neither of them felt comfortable staying in here any longer than they had to). Sure, they’d dragged their respective issues out into the light (which was about as fun as having teeth pulled, but probably necessary), but now they were kinda covering them up again by talking about things like destroying cave paintings with acid.

But Ford had a point. They really oughta get rid of this Bill creep before they did anything else, and part of that was making sure he couldn’t be summoned again.

Stan was a little worried, however, about what would happen the next time they fell asleep. Was Bill still connected to their minds or whatever? Could he do something to them? He probably would, since he’d probably realized by now that they weren’t gonna take his deal. He seemed like a bigger problem than most crooked salesmen Stan was familiar with, who, if they couldn’t coerce someone into buying their product, would just grumble and leave while making a few hand gestures at you; Bill was more like the kind of salesman who would try to sell you fire insurance by wandering around your house talking about how flammable it was, and what an awful shame it would be if someone dropped a match in here, and then stopping to light a cigarette.

A little chill went down his spine as he followed Ford out of the cavern and into the tunnel area; what if Bill was somehow watching them right now, and was well aware of what their plans were? What would he do to stop them?

What  _ wouldn’t _ he do?

* * *

When they emerged at the mouth of the cave, they saw that it was still the dead of night. Or in any case, still pretty freaking dark out; Stan had pawned the last watch he’d possessed (it may or may not have been lawfully purchased by someone, even if it wasn’t exactly Stanley Pines) months ago, so he didn’t know the actual time. It didn’t bother him, though: he was too wide awake to sleep, and besides, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to flee somewhere in the dead of night. Assuming, of course, that they could safely flee into a forest full of monsters.

“Think you know the way all right?” he asked Ford.

His brother chewed his lip. “It would definitely be easier in daylight, and some of the creatures that are out during the day are far less dangerous than those we’d encounter right now...on the other hand I would like to get this problem dealt with as soon as possible…” His fingers drummed an uncertain rhythm on the handle of the lantern-before he brightened. “I can create a spell to help us find the way, and some small protective charms! I just need-” His words trailed off as he dug into his pack and began digging out some of the supplies he’d brought.

“...How did you even learn how ta do that?” Stan asked, crouching on his haunches next to him.

“Some of the creatures here are surprisingly forthcoming with information.” Ford’s voice became muffled as he burrowed further inside. “Particularly-one of the friendlier gnomes, though mostly what he says is his name-and the Multi-Bear.”

“...Multi-what?”

“It’s a bear with multiple heads all over its body. He doesn’t normally do magic, but he’s less violent than his neighbors, so sometimes he gets visitors-”

But the rest of his spiel was lost to Stan, because he had jerked his head up, and was staring down the side of the mountain with an expression that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the more suspicious breeds of dog.

He’d heard the sound of rocks crunching and rolling, like something had just stepped on them.

Someone-or something-was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh-oh!  
Is it a Bill? Is it a red herring?  
These are legitimate questions.
> 
> Tune in next time to find out what the answer is!


	14. Stan and Ford vs. Manliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleep? Who needs it when there's a story just begging to be written?
> 
> ...This attitude is gonna come back to bite me in the morning, I just know it.

At first Ford didn’t notice a thing; his attention was completely absorbed in making sure he remembered all the components for two simple protective spells that he thought he ought to work on before he did anything else.

Then Stan’s hand on his shoulder broke his concentration, and he jerked his head up.

Stan’s mouth was set in a grim line, and he was staring intently into the darkness behind them. With his free hand, he reached out to the lantern, turned out the light. Ford realized quickly that this served the dual purpose of concealing their location, and helping their eyes adjust to the darkness better. He closed his eyes for a few moments, willing his pupils to expand faster. And as he did, he heard the rumbling noises, accompanied by a strange, rhythmic slapping. It reminded him of something...something from his college days…

And then the bluegrass music started playing from their other side.

Ford’s blood ran cold.

“Stanley,” his whispered urgently, “I know what’s coming. And it’s really, really bad.”

“What?” Stan’s voice was a low growl that almost sounded deeper than Pa’s.

“A pack of Kill Billies.”

Even in the darkness he could see the confusion in Stan’s eyes.

“They’re feral hill men who will suck our blood, and if we had overalls they would steal them! They’ve strayed out of their normal territory for some reason!”

“...This place is  _ weird _ ,” Stan whispered; he finally released Ford’s shoulder, and he could hear him rustling around in his duffel bag.

“We need to get to the nearest convenience store.” Ford grabbed up the components of his spells; there was no time to work on them now, not when they were clearly surrounded. “It’s the only defense I’ve heard of against them-they respect the no shirt, no shoes rule.”

“...So they’ll suck people’s blood, but they care about things like that?” Stan asked in disbelief.

“Don’t look at me, I don’t understand it either!”

“Here.” Out of the blue Ford found something being pressed into his hand. It took him a second to recognize it, and he nearly dropped it in surprise.

“Why do you have a  _ switchblade _ ?”

“It opens by pressing the button on the end,” Stan said, blatantly ignoring the question. “Don’t stab in overhead arcs like in the movies, that doesn’t work-do a smooth stabbing motion, or a slice if you have to. And don’t look back.”

Then, before Ford could ask what the heck he meant, Stan grabbed his wrist, yanking him to his feet, and with a warlike holler he charged down the side of the mountain.

* * *

They didn’t make it far before a shadowy group of Kill Billies were thundering into their path, grunting and hamboning in excitement; their glowing eyes and dark silhouettes made Ford think of the Morlocks from  _ The Time Machine _ . He barely had time to think about the fact that he was carrying a  _ knife _ , and he was most likely going to have to  _ use _ it on these creatures to keep them from more or less  _ eating _ him, when one of them lunged at Stan.

His twin met the attack with a fist that made a surprising ringing sound when it connected; the Kill Billy was knocked to the ground with a squeal of pain. Without breaking his stride, Stan punched the next one, and the next. And by then they were attacking Ford too, so he became distracted by trying to fend them off with the knife and what he remembered from boxing lessons.

The most terrifying part was how they were in almost complete darkness, save for the sliver of moon in the sky above them. He was barely able to make out the shapes of the things attacking them, along with their glowing eyes, and he was having a devil of a time dodging their claws.

For the most part, Ford forgot all about technique, just lashing out with fists and elbows and feet and slicing the air with the switchblade and hoping that he wouldn’t accidentally stab Stan.

Every time one of them appeared in his line of sight, he attacked with everything he had. He felt large crooked teeth try to sink into his arm; he punched at the spot, and made contact with flesh until it pulled away. Another Kill Billy threw himself at him, and he put him down with a frighteningly well-placed knee; the results (namely the hill man collapsing to the mountainside with a groan) told him that in some ways, they were quite anatomically similar to humans.

Someone was shrieking and roaring incoherently. It took Ford a while to realize that this was him.

Finally Stan punched a hole in the crowd of their attackers, and charged forward. Ford saw, and rushed after him, feeling his clothes and pack tearing as clawed fingers grabbed at them and lashing out with his elbows.

The brothers ran as best they could down the side of the mountain, smacking into trees and each other in a frantic effort to outrun the pack, who had already regrouped and were leaping and thundering after them. The sound of wild bluegrass music floated through the air after them; Ford somehow took the time to wonder if it was the same way a leprecorn’s horn constantly played a loop of “O Danny Boy.” Maybe there was an enchantment on their hats?

_ Not important right now! Save yourself! Save  _ _ Stanley _ _ ! _

He could feel warm, wet patches here and there on himself, and smelled the coppery tang of blood; he wasn’t sure if it was his or Stan’s or the Kill Billies, but he hoped it was the latter. He hoped neither of them was about to trip and break an ankle in the undergrowth or something, he hoped against hope there would be a fairy convenience store out here they could take refuge in, he hoped he hoped he hoped-

Then the Kill Billies overtook them, leaping into their path. Ford heard them hamboning triumphantly at each other, and something that sounded eerily like the sound of lips smacking.

He switched the knife to the hand that was hurting less, refusing to let himself be crushed by despair. And a little in front of him, he saw Stan flex his fists in preparation. They were just charging towards their hunters, ready to fight for either liberty or death-when out of nowhere, a giant logging truck rammed into the crowd, sending Kill Billies flying.

* * *

Ford stared at it in disbelief-until a window rolled down, and a familiar voice roared, “GET IN, PINES!”

Neither he nor Stan stopped to question this; they rushed to the vehicle, scrambling inside. As soon as the door closed after Ford, the truck took off; since neither of them had had time to put on seat belts, they smashed into the far side, and it was all they could do not to hit the ceiling as well.

Ford could hear the sounds of wailing and mournful bluegrass music in their wake.

“...Corduroy?” he finally stammered out, as the truck skidded on only half its wheels and finally landed back on the dirt road. “How-what were you doing-”

“SEAT BELTS!” ‘Boyish’ Dan Corduroy bellowed. “No questions until you’re strapped in safely-this is gonna get bumpy!”

It was impressive, really, how he was only a little younger than they were (to Ford’s knowledge, he was just barely out of his teens), but still managed to be both bigger and twice as loud.

With some difficulty, Stan and Ford managed to buckle themselves in. Ford forced himself to refrain from pointing out that things had already been pretty bumpy when they first got into the car.

“What the devil are you doing out here?” he demanded, once he was secured.

“I could ask you the same thing, Pines!” Dan shot back, swerving the truck around a sharp bend. His voice was a bit more nasally than usual; Ford wondered if he had hay fever or something. “And who the heck’s the other guy?!”

“...It’s a long story,” Ford admitted.

“It must be, if it involves you being attacked by whatever those things were! I heard the noise all the way from my logging camp, and thought it might be the Hidebehind attacking unwary travelers!” He twisted the steering wheel again, and both Stan and Ford had to stifle screams as they narrowly dodged a giant oak tree.

* * *

Despite his evident curiosity, Dan refrained from further questions until they finished their (extremely haphazard) journey at a large clearing that was actually quite similar to Ford’s own home, complete with the log cabin in the center. The main difference, of course, was the large pile of logs stacked against the side of the house, which he imagined were to be sold for firewood, or lumber, or perhaps just kept around for caber tossing-he could see any of those being a possibility with the Corduroy family.

“...Thank you, Dan,” Ford said as he stumbled out of the truck. “You saved our lives back there. I don’t know how we can ever repay-”

“Don’t mention it!” Dan boomed, locking the car behind him after peering into the back briefly (Ford decided that if they’d left any bloodstains on the seats he would personally pay to have them cleaned up). “It never hurts to be good to your neighbors!”

Ford glanced at Stan anxiously. “Stanley? You all right?”

Stan flexed his hand, before removing something that Ford realized was a set of brass knuckles from it. Stan carried a switchblade and brass knuckles. G_d, Ford had screwed up his life, hadn’t he?

“I’ll live,” Stan said, smiling at him. It looked like the right side of his face had gotten some bruises to match the left, and in the light from the cabin he could make out numerous scrapes, cuts, and copious amounts of blood, but he was still trying to reassure Ford that he was okay.

Some things never changed, he guessed.

Dan stomped ahead of them and threw open the cabin door.

“Come on in! You can tell me all about what happened, and who this feller is who looks so much like you!” His voice still sounded kind of funny, Ford realized. And in the lighting, even facing away from it, his eyes looked different too-the color, or the shape, maybe...

Stan stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Name’s Stan Pines. Nice ta meet ya.”

Dan grinned...a little too widely, as he stretched out his meaty hand towards Stan’s. As he did, Stan seemed to get the same instinct as Ford did that something wasn’t quite right here, and took a step back, frowning.

And then the switchblade, which Ford must have dropped in the car, appeared in Dan’s other hand, and came lunging towards Stan-

Ford didn’t think twice.

He hurled himself forward, shoving Stan out of the way. Just in time for the blade to sink into his flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hopefully THAT came out of nowhere for you people.


	15. Taking a STANd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: there is blood. And darkness.
> 
> Also, please excuse medical errors; as I've said before, I'm a writer, not a doctor.

Stan barely had time to let out an anguished scream that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, and jump back to his feet from where he’d fallen, before this thing that was clearly not Dan Corduroy grabbed Ford by his hair, jerking his head back; he yanked the knife out of Ford’s shoulder (not good not good not good Stan had been stabbed there before, and while it was better than a gut wound he knew there were still some important veins and arteries and things in shoulders Ford needed a doctor right  _ now _ ) and placed it against Ford’s throat.

“How’s about you come on in with us, Stanley?” he asked, still grinning. And now Stan recognized Bill’s voice, even though he had no idea how it was possible, but it was so hard to think about it one way or another when every thought in his head was busy shrieking  _ FORD FORD FORD FORD’S HURT HELP FORD- _

Slowly he followed Bill and Ford into the cabin, relieved that the wound wasn’t spraying or leaking extensively, so at least no arteries had been punctured. Once they were all the way inside Bill kicked the door shut with his boot, and then dragged Ford, who was getting paler by the second and starting to loll his head backwards, towards a large wooden chair set up next to the table. He didn’t take the knife from his throat until he’d sat Ford down, and even then it was just to grab a few coils of rope off the table and tie him to the chair (which Stan thought was more than a little ridiculous-there was no way his brother was going anywhere on his own right now).

Stan stepped towards them; instantly the knife was on his brother’s throat again.

“He needs to have that looked at!” Stan protested. “Please! I can’t-”

He swallowed a little, despite his determination not to show weakness in front of this freak.

_ It should have been me. It’s my fault. I need to fix it. _

Bill sighed, rolling his eyes. “Stupid fragile flesh sticks, can’t handle losing a little blood,” he muttered, twirling the knife in irritation. But eventually he conceded, “There’s a med kit over there,” pointing to a corner where indeed, Stan saw a very large kit. He snatched it, and occupied himself when he returned with cleaning and bandaging Ford’s shoulder.

He ignored Bill breathing down his neck, lightly slapping his brother’s cheek a few times after he’d finally pasted together the mess as best he could.

“Ford? Stanford? Hey, don’t go away now, you gotta stay with me. We’ve got a bit of a problem, and you’re the brains here, Poindexter, so you gotta stay awake and figure out how ta fix it, ya hear me?”

Ford’s eyes, glazed with pain behind their glasses, tried their best to focus. They settled on him for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder, and widened with fear.

Stan peered in the same direction; Bill instantly lowered his borrowed hands and stuck his tongue back in his mouth, grinning innocently at him.

“Done now?”

Stan gave a tiny shrug. “I’ve done all I know how ta do.”

“Good.” Bill yanked up another chair and flung himself into it. “Then let’s talk business, shall we?”

* * *

“I mighta known you were the one I’d need ta deal with,” Bill said, crossing one leg over the other knee and using the knife blade to start cleaning his nails. “Cuz Fordsy, he’s got his head stuck in his mysteries, so he’d believe anything I said as long as I told him how smart he was; he doesn’t remember the outside world even exists mosta the time. But you-you’re a man of the world, Stanley, and I respect you for that-”

“What did you do ta Corduroy?” Stan wasn’t in the mood for this freak’s flattery BS.

“Oh, you mean my meat puppet?” Bill smoothed his fingers over the flannel shirt in a way that made Stan distinctly uncomfortable. “Turns out you give a guy a nice enough dream about his girlfriend, she can ask him to do a-ny-thing you want. Am I right?” He cackled, and winked like he was inviting Stan to get in on the joke.

Stan gave him a glare of disgust.

“Oh, get your mind out of the gutter, they were just on a picnic in the woods! And she asked him ta help her out with a favor, and he said he’d do anything for her, so she said-” he made his voice even more high and twittering- “‘Thank you, Dan, I know I can count on you, you big strong man!’ And then she held out her hand for him to help her up, and-”

“Get ta the point.”

“The point? The point is, I wanna hire you!”

Stan blinked, more than a little nonplussed.

Bill groaned. “Didn’t you ever watch  _ It’s a Wonderful Life _ ? You’d relate to it, the main guy’s kinda like you. Thinks the world would be better off if he’d never been born. But you’re right, I digress.” He leaned forward. “I need Ford to do a job for me, and you’re gonna be the incentive for him to do it.”

“What kind of job?” Stan put a protective hand on Ford’s non-stabbed shoulder.

“I want him to build something! Just a neat little project that’ll let me into your world with a physical body of my very own, so I don’t have to keep borrowing other people’s!” Bill spread his hands with yet another wide grin. Then, just as abruptly, he glared. “I  _ was _ going to pull him into this gradually, get him invested in the idea through a process, but then  _ you _ butted in with all your  _ questions _ and just spoiled everything like always, and that means we gotta do it like this. So here’s the deal-” he reached out and flicked Ford’s kneecap. “Is everyone paying attention?”

Ford groaned, and shifted away. To Stan’s relief, though he still looked dazed, he appeared to be a little more awake now.

“Good. As I was saying, here's the deal: he does what I say, and I’ll let you live, since in this dimension he still cares about you.”

_ Dimension? What’s he talking about? _

“ _ You  _ do what I say, and I’ll let him keep all his limbs. I’ll even spare you both after Weirdmageddon happens, and you can go sail around the world like you’ve always dreamed of! How’s that sound?”

Stan had a few choice words to describe how that sounded, even if he had no idea what ‘Weirdma-what-now’ was. He refrained, however, instead reaching into his coat pocket for the other thing he’d taken out of his duffel earlier: his gun. Which he pointed right at Bill.

Bill blinked-and then cackled scornfully.

“Oh, good try, Stanley, really cute-but no dice. You try using that, you’re just gonna kill the meat puppet, you won’t get rid of me. And I wonder how the locals are gonna feel about you murdering one of their own-you really that eager to go back to prison?” He stood up and actually pressed his chest right up against the barrel of the gun, waggling his eyebrows in challenge.

Stan’s hand trembled with rage...before he lowered the gun.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Put it away like a good boy so I can get you settled in.” And he picked up another coil of rope, obviously intending to tie him up too.

But Stan stood still, mind racing.

“Stan-ley, I’m not playing games here!” Bill’s voice became sharp with impatience. “Well, okay, I am playing games, but they’re gonna get a whole lot less fun for you if you keep trying to defy me!”

“I just wanna get something straight.” Stan’s voice, by contrast, was quite soft (by his standards anyway). “You wanna use me as a hostage so Ford’ll do what you want?”

“You need me to draw a diagram?” Bill demanded. “Chop chop, h-wait, what?!”

Because Stan raised his arm again-and pointed the gun at his own temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I did warn you.
> 
> Just to clarify, when Bill attacked Stan in the last chapter, he wasn't trying to flat-out murder him. He was just trying to incapacitate him. But when Ford got stabbed instead, that worked too. In fact, it was an even better way of keeping Stan at his mercy, because he's going to prioritize Ford's safety above all else.


	16. The moment you've all been waiting for

Ford had to twist his head at a very uncomfortable angle to see what his brother was doing-and when he _ saw _ what he was doing, it was like all the blood in his veins had been replaced with snow. His vision swam with colored spots for a second, and his ears rang, before he practically forced himself to stay conscious. No way was he going to black out now, not when Stan was about to-

Bill was far less numb in his reaction.

“Whoa whoa whoa, hold up there! What do you think you’re-”

“It’s simple logic, Bill.” Stan’s voice was completely, _ terrifyingly _calm. “You can’t make my brother do anything if you ain’t got leverage on him. And right now, I’m the only leverage you got.” He put his thumb on the hammer, slowly pulling it back.

“Stan!” Ford whispered, struggling against his bonds.

Stan didn’t even look at him, gaze fixed on Bill. “Time for you ta get outta Dodge, ya one-eyed jerk. You lose.”

“...How do I know there’s actually bullets in that gun?” Bill demanded, using Dan’s face to glare at him skeptically. “I know you’re a poker man, Stanley, and this sounds like a-”

Stan pulled the trigger.

_ Click. _

It was a soft sound, compared to Bill’s high, shrill voice, but both he and Ford still jumped in alarm.

“Got five more tries,” Stan said, tilting his head and raising a challenging eyebrow. “Ya really think it’s worth it?”

Ford’s eyes were fixed on his brother’s finger, as it settled on the trigger again.

He barely had time to whisper a frantic “No!” before it pulled.

_ Click _.

With a strangled snarl, Bill lunged for him, but Stan stepped out of reach, holding the gun tight against his head. He was more in Ford’s line of vision now, so he got a clear view of him pulling back the hammer again, tightening his finger on the trigger-

“AAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

* * *

Both of them jumped (for one heart-stopping second Ford thought Stan would pull the trigger again in his surprise) and stared at Bill.

He snarled incoherently, pointing a shaking finger at Stan.

“YOU JUST _ HAVE _ TO MESS EVERYTHING UP, DON’T YOU?! I had _ everything _ just how I wanted it, but noooo, you had to come in and take it all away!”

Ford’s gut twisted in a mixture of disgust and horror. That sounded so much like-like him.

Stan gave a sardonic shrug. “Apparently that’s what I’m good at.”

For a moment it looked like Bill was going to make Dan’s body explode with sheer rage-but then he threw up his hands in exasperation. “You know what, forget it! You losers aren’t worth my time-I’m just gonna look for a dimension where Stanley Pines is not in Gravity Falls. Bye-bye, chumps!”

A few seconds later, Dan’s body collapsed to the floor.

Stan lowered the gun, shoving it back into his pocket with a shaking hand, and rushed to the big man’s side, where he knelt and checked his pulse.

After a second he let out a relieved sigh, and then returned to Ford, untying him as quickly as possible.

“You’re gonna be okay, Sixer. I’m gonna drive you ta the hospital and get ya checked out, and you’re gonna be-”

As soon as he was free enough, Ford punched him.

Considering the fact that he’d just recently been stabbed, it hurt-in fact, it probably hurt him a lot more than it did Stanley. But he didn’t let that stop him from doing it again.

For a minute Stan just stood there and took it, only staggering a little; then, when he realized Ford wasn’t ready to stop attacking him, he grabbed his wrists in an attempt to hold him off without hurting him.

“HOW COULD YOU DO THAT?!” Ford screamed at him, squirming in his grasp. “How could you make me watch you do that?! You selfish-”

He released a stream of foul obscenity to which all previous censored moments in this story were “Gosh dang it to heck!” by comparison.

Stan looked impressed; he probably didn’t think Ford had ever even _ heard _ such language, let alone possessed the willingness to use it.

Eventually, though, Ford ran out of steam-in part because the amount of pain he was in was making it hard to keep up the onslaught.

“You could have-I would’ve had to see-”

His breaths began hitching, and he could suddenly feel “cave water” gathering in his eyes again. He tried to stop it. Ineffectually.

Stan’s face softened, as best Ford could see through his blurred vision. Cautiously he stretched out his arm, using his hand to cup the back of Ford’s neck, looking like he expected to be thrown off.

But Ford staggered into him, burying his face in his shoulder and his hands in the back of his jacket. Stan held him back, squeezing as gently as he could without jostling his injuries.

“Huh,” he whispered at last, “It’s been five years and you’re still pretty hug-shaped.”

Ford squeezed his ribs.

* * *

They only let go when they heard a groan from behind them.

Dan sat up, rubbing his head. To Ford’s relief, when he opened his eyes again they appeared to be their normal green color.

When he saw the two intruders in his cabin, he let out a startled growl, and lunged to his feet with meaty fists clenched-but then he appeared to recognize Ford.

“Pines! What are you doing here?! What-” some of his boisterousness vanished. “What the heck happened to you? And who’s that? What’s goin’ on?”

With a small feeling of deja vu, Ford asked tiredly, “Can we explain on the way to the hospital?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Was I wrong?


	17. Mend the bond torn by pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Repent, sinners! The end is upon us!

It had been tempting to just come up with a creative lie; but somehow, as they gathered themselves into the truck, they found themselves telling Dan (whose driving had minimally improved when his body was no longer being controlled by a dream demon) more or less what happened. Surprisingly, he didn’t respond by thinking they were crazy and driving towards the nearest mental hospital. Instead, he frowned thoughtfully and muttered, “I thought that dream ended a little funny,” and pushed his foot further down on the gas pedal. A few minutes later, he added, “Matilda is never gonna believe this.”

Stan assumed that Matilda was the name of the girlfriend Bill had mentioned. Ford must have thought so too, because he leaned forward, wincing when the action jostled his shoulder. “Actually, Dan, it would most likely be beneficial for all of us if you refrained from telling her-or anyone else-about this at all.”

Dan’s meaty fingers tightened on the wheel. “But you said this demon guy possessed me when I was sleeping by persuading me ta make a deal with him or whatever. Wouldn’t it be better ta tell everyone else so they know not ta do that?”

Ford blinked like a startled owl. Stan suspected that he hadn’t realized the lumberjack was capable of drawing logical conclusions like that. “I-well-he _ did _ say that he was going to leave for other dimensions. And we’re planning to destroy the painting detailing how to summon him as soon as our injuries have been seen to, so I doubt he’s going to return here. Besides, as you stated, the likelihood of anyone believing our story without the firsthand experience you’ve had is…” he struggled for a better word, before ending lamely (probably too tired and weak from blood loss to come up with anything better), “...unlikely.”

After a bit Dan shrugged. “Whatever ya say, Pines.”

Fortunately for all of them, none of their injuries required overnight treatment-just more than a few stitches, some bandages, and some rabies shots, since Stan fabricated an elaborate story about their being attacked by coyotes (which they were forced to fend off with knives, and in the ensuing scuffle Ford had accidentally been stabbed), and the hospital staff were dumb enough to believe it. After they were cleaned up, Dan produced some spare flannel shirts, suspenders and jeans from his truck (since the contents of their packs had been more or less ripped to shreds by the Kill Billies; only a few things, like Ford’s journal and the truth teeth, had been salvaged), and browbeat both of them into accepting them until they could get different clothes. They were exceptionally large, making them look like some weird clown act from a traveling lumberjack circus, but they were warm and definitely more comfortable than some of the things Stan had been forced to wear in the past, so he wasn’t complaining.

Also fortunately, Ford still had his wallet on him (because of course the dork had brought his _ wallet _ on a camping trip), allowing him to pay their hospital bill instead of sneaking out while the nurse’s back was turned like Stan had been prepared to.

With that out of the way, Dan drove them back to Ford’s house to retrieve the acid from the fridge.

“...Do you mind dropping us off at the trail?” Ford asked as they returned to the truck, bearing a few more supplies he thought would be useful (Stan was still trying to get used to the idea of having spare supplies lying around if you lost the things you had), including flashlights this time. “We can probably make our own way back in the morning, but-”

“No.”

That drew the brothers up short. As did the way Dan was suddenly glaring at them out the window.

“...I suppose we have taken up a lot of your time,” Ford said at last, sounding a little hurt. “I’m sorry, I should have realized. It’s all right, we can find our own way-”

“If you think I’m gonna let ya travel back up there, where a pack o’ bloodthirsty hill folk is still roaming around, and get rid of the monster that got inta _ my _ dreams and used me as a puppet, all by yourselves, you are totally outta your minds. I’m comin’ with you.” Dan shoved the back door of the truck open using only one finger. “Now get in.”

“Dan-”

“It’s not optional, Pines.”

Stan and Ford looked at each other. Then, with a shrug, Stan approached the door and climbed in.

“Looks like we got no choice.”

Dan grinned through his beard.

“Nope.”

To Stan’s relief, Ford looked less disgruntled about having to work with someone else than he might have expected; he just climbed into the back with Stan.

Corduroy’s truck was surprisingly good at off-road terrain, taking them nearly all the way back to the cave before they had to get out and walk the rest of the way. In case the Kill Billies attacked again, Dan produced three hatchets from his seemingly-bottomless truck bed, giving one to each of them. Stan thought, with a small relieved shiver, that it was a good thing Bill hadn’t found those when he was threatening them; otherwise they would have had more to worry about than Ford getting a stitched-up shoulder.

They made it to the cave safely, however, and under Ford’s instruction they began dissolving the painting and inscription.

“In your FACE!” Dan roared, punching the picture of Bill before it could disappear; his fist combined with the acid created a substantial hole in the cave wall.

Stan and Ford both laughed gleefully, and chanted, “Death to the triangle! Death to the triangle!” with fists pumped like they were back in high school, until the last traces were gone.

* * *

By the time Dan drove them home the sun was starting to peek over the horizon.

“You need ta come in and catch some sleep?” Stan asked as they left the truck. Then he remembered, guiltily, that this was not his house and he had no right to be inviting guests over.

“Nah, I can make it home okay,” Dan promised. “I’m a real MAN; I could stay awake for five days straight if I had to!”

“You’re starting to sound like this knucklehead-he tried that once when we were fifteen. He ended up crashing on the third morning and getting an earful from our ma on taking care of himself.”

Ford elbowed him in the gut-and immediately winced as the action jostled his stitches.

Dan guffawed, which turned into a wide yawn. “See ya later, dorks.”

Soon enough his taillights were winking out of sight as he rounded a bend.

For a moment the boys just stood there, swaying dazedly in place. At last, Stan flopped gracelessly onto the couch on the porch, creating his own yawn.

“You aren’t seriously planning on sleeping there, are you?” Ford asked, giving him a disapproving look.

“Watch me.” Stan stretched his legs out in front of him, burrowing a little into the folds of his giant shirt and turning up the collar. His eyelids were already starting to get heavy.

Then, to his surprise, Ford collapsed onto the couch next to him.

“Move over.”

Stan gave him a nonplussed look...but scooted enough for him to be comfortable. A few seconds later Ford’s head had dropped onto his shoulder, and his farthest hand had stretched over, burying itself in the folds of Stan’s sleeve.

The casual act of affection made something swell in Stan’s throat; all he did in return, though, was allow his head to droop onto Ford’s.

Seconds later he was out like a light.

When they finally woke up, it was well into the late afternoon, and they both had some interesting sunburns on their faces and part of their necks from where the sun had hit them during its passage. However, they both felt more than a little refreshed, and when they went inside Ford got started putting together a salve for their burns.

While he did that, Stan opened some of the canned supplies in the cupboard-specifically some corn, green beans and chili-and then on an impulse threw together more pancakes (which ended up with bits of hair in them again-he wondered if that was going to be a recurring thing). After they finished eating, Ford washed the dishes. It was all quite comfortable-you could almost call it domestic. And Stan wasn’t prepared for it to last much longer.

Sure enough, Ford cleared his throat once the dishes were set out to dry and he’d sat back down with the salve, as they were putting it on each other. “Stanley, there’s some things we should figure out.”

Even though he hadn’t finished his sentence yet, had barely even started it, Stan’s heart lurched in his chest. He really, really wasn’t ready to have a serious discussion with his brother, not after they’d already cleared a lot of the air between them and finally returned to some semblance of peace.

“I get it,” he said quickly.

Ford blinked. “Get what?”

“I-It’s okay, I wasn’t expecting-I won’t stay for too long, I promise. But if you’d at least let me hang around till your shoulder’s better, that’d probably be better for you-”

“STANLEY!”

Ford had grabbed him by the shoulders and was shaking him again, like when he’d said he deserved to be punished for what he’d screwed up for him.

Stan was very confused.

“I’m not trying to ask you to leave, you knucklehead! How could you think that, after you literally just saved my life?!”

“...But you said-back there, you said you’d wanted ta have your own life and identity an’ stuff-”

“Oh for g_d’s sake, Stan, that was back _ then _ ! I didn’t mean for the rest of our _ lives _ !” He let go of Stan’s shoulders and opted to dig his hands into his hair instead. Stan hoped he wasn’t about to start tearing it out. “I-I’ve missed you, all right? I’ve missed having you around, I’ve missed having my best friend in my life, so unless you have a really compelling reason to leave, then will you _ please _ stay?!”

“But Dad-”

“Dad can suck a lemon for all I care. I don’t wanna lose you again.”

Stan’s breath hitched, and he was disappointed that he hadn’t been drinking something, because a sentence like that was definitely spit-worthy.

Ford started babbling something about maybe him looking for jobs around town, or going back to school to get his diploma if he wanted, but he wasn’t quite listening. His hand strayed into his pocket-where it closed around something.

Confused, Stan pulled it out-and his eyes widened.

It was a card.

A two of hearts, to be specific. One that was completely whole, except for a faint row of stitches that you could see down the middle if you looked closely.

_ How the heck- _

Among other things that were weird about this, he was pretty sure he’d left the pieces of the card in the pocket of his other jeans when he put them in the washing machine; he’d never put them in the ones he’d borrowed from Dan. And even if he had, how would this have even happened?

On the other hand...this was a town that thrived on weirdness and defying expectations.

And he was so, so tired of being alone and unhappy.

Stan looked up at his brother.

“Okay. I’ll stick around if you want. But only cuz you’re beggin’ me. And if you’re left alone you might get in trouble with some other weirdo from another dimension or something.”

Ford let out a relieved-sounding sigh, and rubbed his knuckles against his head affectionately.

“You’re such a martyr to your own generosity, Stanley.”

“Yeah, I know.”

* * *

Somewhere far away, an old woman gave a satisfied smile.

For now, at least, all was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this final chapter technically fits with Stanuary week 1, since the prompt was burning. And he and Ford get sunburned.  
...It counts, okay?
> 
> So, how's that for an ending? Good?  
If anyone has further ideas for the Flipside AU, I am open to suggestions. I'm not sure what else could happen since the threat of Bill is gone, unless maybe some trouble from Stan's past catches up with them or they have to eventually encounter their father again, but like I said-open to suggestions.  
Until then, ciao!  
P.S. Thank you for the suggestion about the card, Cartoon_Idiot_59.


End file.
